OF  A  FOOL 

Sr  NJQUST  STRIHDS&RQ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT 


From  the  Library  of 

Henry  Goldman,   Ph.D. 

1886-1972 


-'0 


^t^ 


t^ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/confessionoffoolOOstriiala 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 


THE  CONFESSION 
OF  A  FOOL 

BY  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 


TRANSLATED  BY 

ELLIE  SCHLEUSSNER 


BOSTON 
SMALL,    MAYNARD    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 
I913 


W 

Translated  from  the  " Litterarisches  Echo" 
August  15,  1911 

STRINDBERG'S  WORKS 
(By  I.  E.  PoRiTZKY,  Berlin) 

The  republication  of  The  Confession  of  a  Fool  represents 
the  last  link  in  the  chain  of  Strindberg's  autobiographical 
novels.  A  German  version  of  the  book  was  published  as  far 
back  as  1893,  but  it  was  mutilated,  abbreviated,  corrupted, 
and  falsified  to  such  an  extent  that  the  attorney-general, 
misled  by  the  revolting  language,  blamed  the  author  for  the 
misdeeds  of  the  translator  and  prohibited  the  sale  of  the 
book.  This  was  a  splendid  advertisement  for  this  profound 
work,  but  there  were  many  who  would  have  rejoiced  if 
the  translation  had  been  completely  ignored.  It  distorted 
Strindberg's  character  and  was  the  cause  of  many  prejudices 
which  exist  to  this  day. 

Schering's  new  translation  is  an  attempt  to  make  repara- 
tion for  this  crime.  "  It  is  impossible,"  he  says,  "  that  any 
attorney-general  can  now  doubt  the  high  morality  of  this 
book."  Strindberg  himself  has  called  it  a  terrible  book,  and 
has  regretted  that  he  ever  wrote  it.  He  has  never  published 
it  in  Swedish,  his  own  language,  because  not  only  is  it  too 
personal  in  character,  but  it  also  revealed  a  still  bleeding 
wound.  It  contains  the  relentless  description  of  his  first 
marriage,  so  superbly  candid  an  account,  that  one  is  re- 
minded of  the  last  testament  of  a  man  for  whom  death  has  no 
longer  any  terror.  We  know  from  his  fascinating  novel 
Separated,  how  painful  the  burden  was  which  he  had  to 


bear,  and  how  terribly  he  suffered  during  the  period  of  his 
first  marriage.  So  much  so,  indeed,  that  he  had  to  write  this 
book  before  he  could  face  the  thought  of  death  with  com- 
posure. Doubtless,  a  man  for  whom  life  holds  no  longer  any 
charm  would  give  us  a  genuinely  truthful  account  of  his 
inner  life,  and  there  is  no  denying  that  a  book  which  takes 
its  entire  matter  from  the  inner  life  is  of  v£istly  greater 
importance  and  on  an  immeasurably  higher  level  than  a  mil- 
lion novels,  be  they  written  ever  so  well.  The  great  import- 
ance of  The  Confession  of  a  Fool  lies  in  the  fact  that  it 
depicts  the  struggle  of  a  highly  intellectual  man  to  free 
himself  from  the  slavery  of  sexuality,  and  from  a  woman 
who  is  a  typical  representative  of  her  sex. 

Apart  from  this,  it  is  an  intense  joy  from  an  artistic  point 
of  view  to  follow  the  "  confessor  "  through  the  book,  as  he 
looks  at  himself  from  all  sides  in  order  to  gain  self-knowl- 
edge ;  that  he  conceals  nothing  from  us,  not  even  those  deep 
secrets  which  he  would  fain  keep  even  in  the  face  of  death. 
One  sees  Strindberg  brooding  over  his  own  soul  to  fathom 
its  depths.  He  plumbs  its  hidden  profoundnesses,  he  takes 
to  pieces  the  inner  wheels  of  his  mechanism,  so  as  to  know 
for  himself  and  to  show  us  how  he  is  made  and  what  is  the 
cause  of  the  instinct  which  drives  him  to  confess  and  to 
create.  He  opens  wide  his  heart  and  lets  us  see  that  he  car- 
ries in  his  breast  his  heaven  and  also  his  horrible  hell.  We 
see  angels  and  devils  fighting  in  his  soul  for  supremacy,  and 
the  divine  in  him  stepping  between  them  with  its  creative 
Let  there  be! 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

PART  I 
I 

It  was  on  the  thirteenth  of  May,  1875,  at  Stockholm. 

I  well  remember  the  large  room  of  the  Royal  Library 
which  extended  through  a  whole  wing  of  the  Castle,  with 
its  beechen  wainscoting,  brown  with  age  like  the  meer- 
schaum of  a  much-used  cigar-holder.  The  enormous  room, 
with  its  rococo  headings,  garlands,  chains  and  armorial 
bearings,  round  which,  at  the  height  of  the  first  floor,  ran 
a  gallery  supported  by  Tuscan  columns,  was  yawning  like 
a  great  chasm  underneath  my  feet;  with  its  hundred 
thousand  volumes  it  resembled  a  gigantic  brain,  with  the 
thoughts  of  long-forgotten  generations  neatly  arranged 
on  shelves. 

A  passage  running  from  one  end  of  the  room  to  the 
other  divided  the  two  principal  parts,  the  walls  of  which 
were  completely  hidden  by  shelves  fourteen  feet  high. 
The  golden  rays  of  the  spring  sun  were  falling  through 
the  twelve  windows,  illuminating  the  volumes  of  the 
Renaissance,  bound  in  white  and  gold  parchment,  the 
black  morocco  bindings  mounted  with  silver  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  the  red-edged  volumes  bound  in  calf  of 
a  hundred  years  later,  the  green  leather  bindings  which 
were  the  fashion  under  the  Empire,  and  the  cheap  covers 
of  our  own  time.  Here  theologians  were  on  neighbourly 
terms    with    apostles    of    magic,    philosophers    hobnobbed 


2  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

with  naturalists,  poets  and  historians  dwelt  in  p)eace  side 
by  side.  It  reminded  one  of  a  geological  stratum  of 
unfathomable  depth  where,  as  in  a  puddingstone,  layer 
was  piled  upon  layer,  marking  the  successive  stages 
arrived  at  by  human  folly  or  human  genius. 

I  can  see  myself  now.  I  had  climbed  on  to  the  en- 
circling gallery,  and  was  engaged  in  arranging  a  collection 
of  old  books  which  a  well-known  collector  had  just  pre- 
sented to  the  library.  He  had  been  clever  enough  to 
ensure  his  own  immortality  by  endowing  each  volume  with 
his  ex-libris  bearing  the  motto  "  Speravit  infestis." 

Since  I  was  as  superstitious  as  an  atheist,  this  motto, 
meeting  my  gaze  day  after  day  whenever  I  happened  to 
open  a  volume,  had  made  an  undeniable  impression  on 
me.  He  was  a  lucky  fellow,  this  brave  man,  for  even  in 
misfortune  he  never  abandoned  hope.  .  .  .  But  for  me 
all  hope  was  dead.  There  seemed  to  be  no  chance  what- 
ever that  my  drama  in  five  acts,  or  six  ta.bleaux,  with 
three  transformation  scenes  on  the  open  stage,  would  ever 
see  the  footlights.  Seven  men  stood  between  me  and 
promotion  to  the  post  of  a  librarian — seven  men,  all  in 
perfect  health,  and  four  with  a  private  income.  A  man 
of  twenty-six,  in  receipt  of  a  monthly  salary  of  twenty 
crowns,  with  a  drama  in  five  acts  stowed  away  in  a  drawer 
in  his  attic,  is  only  too  much  inclined  to  embrace  pessi- 
mism, this  apotheosis  of  scepticism,  so  comforting  to  all 
failures.  It  compensates  them  for  unobtainable  dinners, 
enables  them  to  draw  admirable  conclusions,  which  often 
have  to  make  up  for  the  loss  of  an  overcoat,  pledged 
before  the  end  of  the  winter. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  I  was  a  member  of  a 
learned  Bohemia,  which  had  succeeded  an  older,  artistic 
Bohemia,  a  contributor  to  important  newspapers  and 
excellent,  but  badly  paying  magazines,  a  partner  in  a 
society  founded  for  the  purpose  of  translating  Hartmann's 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  3 

Philosophy  of  the  Unconscious,  a  member  of  a  secret 
federation  for  the  promotion  of  free  love,  the  bearer  of 
the  empty  title  of  a  "  royal  secretary/'  and  the  author 
of  two  one-act  plays  which  had  been  performed  at  the 
Royal  Theatre,  I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  make  ends 
meet.  I  hated  life,  although  the  thought  of  relinquishing 
it  had  never  crossed  my  mind;  on  the  contrary,  I  had 
always  done  my  best  to  continue  not  only  my  own  exist- 
ence but  also  that  of  the  race.  It  cannot  be  denied  that 
pessimism,  misinterpreted  by  the  multitude  and  generally 
confused  with  hypochondria,  is  really  a  quite  serene  and 
even  comforting  philosophy  of  life.  Since  everything  is 
relatively  nothing,  why  make  so  much  fuss,  particularly 
as  truth  itself  is  mutable  and  short-lived?  Are  we  not 
constantly  discovering  that  the  truth  of  yesterday  is  the 
folly  of  to-morrow?  Why,  then,  waste  strength  and 
youth  in  discovering  fresh  fallacies?  The  only  proven 
fact  is  that  we  have  to  die.  Let  us  live  then !  But  for 
whom?     For  what  purpose?     Alas!     .     .     . 

When  Bernadotte,  that  converted  Jacobite,  ascended 
the  throne  and  all  the  rubbish  which  had  been  discarded 
at  the  end  of  the  last  century  was  re-introduced,  the 
hopes  of  the  generation  of  1860,  to  which  I  belonged,  were 
dashed  to  the  ground  with  the  clamorously  advertised 
parliamentary  reform.  The  two  houses,  which  had  taken 
the  place  of  the  four  estates,  consisted  for  the  greater 
part  of  peasants.  They  turned  Parliament  into  a  sort 
of  town  council,  where  everybody,  on  the  best  of  terms 
with  everybody  else,  looked  after  his  own  little  affairs, 
without  paying  the  least  regard  to  the  great  problems  of 
life  and  progress.  Politics  were  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  compromise  between  public  and  private  interests. 
The  last  remnants  of  faith  in  what  was  then  "  the  ideal  " 
were  vanishing  in  a  ferment  of  bitterness.  To  this  must 
be  added  the  religious  reaction  which  marked  the  period 


4  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

after  the  death  of  Charles  XV^  and  the  beginning  of  the 
reign  of  Queen  Sophia  of  Nassau.  There  were  plenty  of 
reasons^  therefore,  to  account  for  an  enlightened  pessi- 
mism, reasons  other  than  personal  ones.     . 

The  dust  caused  by  the  rearrangement  of  the  books  was 
choking  me.  I  opened  the  window  for  a  breath  of  fresh 
air  and  a  look  at  the  view  beyond.  A  delicious  breeze 
fanned  my  face,  a  breeze  laden  with  the  scent  of  lilac  and 
the  rising  sap  of  the  poplars.  The  lattice-work  was 
completely  hidden  beneath  the  green  leaves  of  the  honey- 
suckle and  wild  vine;  acacias  and  plane  trees,  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  fatal  whims  of  a  northern  May,  were 
still  holding  back.  It  was  spring,  though  the  skeleton 
of  shrub  and  tree  was  still  plainly  visible  underneath  the 
tender  young  green.  Beyond  the  parapet  with  its  Delft 
vases  bearing  the  mark  of  Charles  XII,  the  masts  of  the 
anchored  steamers  were  rising,  gaily  decorated  with  flags 
in  honour  of  the  May-day  festival.  Behind  them  glittered 
the  bottle-green  line  of  the  bay,  and  from  its  wooded 
shores  on  either  side  the  trees  were  mounting  higher  and 
higher,  gradually,  like  steps,  pines  and  Scotch  firs  on  one 
side  and  soft  green  foliage  on  the  other.  All  the  boats 
lying  at  anchor  were  flying  their  national  colours,  more 
or  less  symbolic  of  the  different  nations.  England  with 
the  dripping  scarlet  of  the  blood  of  her  famous  cattle; 
Spain  striped  red  and  yellow,  like  the  Venetian  blinds  of 
a  Moorish  balcony;  the  United  States  with  their  striped 
bed-tick;  the  gay  tricolour  of  France  by  the  side  of  the 
gloomy  German  flag  with  its  sinister  iron  cross  close  to  the 
flagstaff,  ever  reminiscent  of  mourning;  the  jerkinet  of 
Denmark;  the  veiled  tricolour  of  Russia.  They  were  all 
there,  side  by  side,  with  outspread  wings,  under  the  blue 
cover  of  the  northern  sky.  The  noise  of  carriages, 
whistles,  bells  and  cranes  lent  animation  to  the  picture; 
the    combined    odours    of   oil,   leather,    salt   herrings    and 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  5 

groceries  mingled  with  the  scent  of  the  lilac.  An  easterly 
wind  blowing  from  the  open  sea,  cooled  by  the  drift  ice 
of  the  Baltic,  freshened  the  atmosphere. 

I  forgot  my  books  as  soon  as  I  turned  my  back  to 
them  and  was  leaning  out  of  the  window,  all  my  senses 
taking  a  delicious  bath;  below,  the  guards  were  marching 
past  to  the  strains  of  the  march  from  Faust.  I  was  so 
intoxicated  with  the  music,  the  flags,  the  blue  sky,  the 
flowers,  that  I  had  not  noticed  the  porter  entering  my 
office  in  the  meantime  with  the  mail.  He  touched  my 
shoulder,  handed  me  a  letter  and  disappeared. 

Hm !     .     .     .     a  letter  from  a  lady. 

I  hastily  opened  the  envelope,  anticipating  some  de- 
lightful adventure  .  .  .  surely  it  must  be  something  of 
that  sort     ...     it  was ! 

"  Meet  me  punctually  at  five  o'clock  this  afternoon 
before  No.  65  Parliament  Street.  You  will  know  me  by 
the  roll  of  music  in  my  hand." 

A  short  time  ago  a  little  vixen  had  made  a  fool  of  me, 
and  I  had  sworn  to  take  advantage  of  the  first  favourable 
opportunity  to  revenge  myself.  Therefore  I  was  willing 
enough.  There  was  only  one  thing  which  jarred  on  me; 
the  commanding,  dictatorial  tone  of  the  note  offended  my 
manly  dignity.  How  could  this  unknown  correspondent 
dare  to  attack  me  unawares  in  this  manner.^  What  were 
they  thinking  of,  these  women,  who  have  such  a  poor 
opinion  of  us  men?  They  do  not  ask,  they  command 
their  conquests ! 

As  it  happened  I  had  planned  an  excursion  with  some 
of  my  friends  for  this  very  afternoon.  And,  moreover, 
the  thought  of  a  flirtation  in  the  middle  of  the  day  in  one 
of  the  principal  streets  of  the  town  was  not  very  alluring. 

At  two  o'clock,  however,  I  went  into  the  chemical 
laboratory     where     the     excursionists     had     arranged     to 


6  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

assemble.  They  were  already  crowding  the  ante-room: 
doctors  and  candidates  of  philosophy  and  medicine,  all 
of  them  anxious  to  learn  the  programme  of  the  entertain- 
ment in  store.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  in  the  meantime, 
and  with  many  apologies  refused  to  be  one  of  the  party. 
They  clamoured  for  my  reasons.  I  produced  my  letter 
and  handed  it  to  a  zoologist  who  was  looked  upon  as  an 
expert  in  all  matters  pertaining  to  love;  he  shook  his  head 
while  perusing  it. 

"  No  good,  that  ..."  he  muttered  disconnectedly ; 
"  wants  to  be  married  .  .  .  would  never  sell  herself  .  .  . 
family,  my  dear  old  chap  .  .  .  straight  path  .  ,  .  but 
do  what  you  like.  You'll  find  us  in  the  Park,  later  on, 
if  the  spirit  moves  you  to  join  us,  and  I  have  been  wrong 
about  the  lady.  .  .  ." 

At  the  hour  indicated  I  took  up  my  position  near  the 
house  mentioned,  and  awaited  the  appearance  of  the 
unknown  letter-writer. 

The  roll  of  music  in  her  hand,  what  was  it  but  a  pro- 
posal of  marriage.''  It  differed  in  no  way  from  the  an- 
nouncements on  the  fourth  page  of  certain  newspapers. 
I  suddenly  felt  imeasy;  too  late — the  lady  had  arrived 
and  we  stood  looking  at  each  other. 

My  first  impression — I  believe  in  first  impressions — 
was  quite  vague.  She  was  of  uncertain  age,  between 
twenty-nine  and  forty,  fantastically  dressed.  What  was 
she.''  Artist  or  blue-stocking.''  A  sheltered  woman  or 
one  living  a  free  and  independent  life.^  Emancipated  or 
cocotte.''     I  wondered.  .  .  . 

She  introduced  herself  as  the  fiancee  of  an  old  friend 
of  mine,  an  opera  singer,  and  said  that  he  wished  me  to 
look  after  her  while  she  was  staying  in  town.  This  was 
untrue,  as  I  found  out  later  on. 

She  was  like  a  little  bird,  twittering  incessantly.  After 
she  had  talked  for  half-an-hour  I  knew  all  about  her;  I 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  7 

knew  all  her  emotions,  all  her  thoughts.  But  I  was  only 
half  interested,  and  asked  her  if  I  could  do  anything  for 
her. 

"  I  take  care  of  a  young  woman !  "  I  exclaimed,  after 
she  had  explained  what  she  wanted.  "  Don't  you  know 
that  I  am  the  devil  incarnate.^  " 

"You  only  think  you  are,"  she  replied;  "but  I  know 
you  thoroughly.  You're  unhappy,  that's  all.  You  ought 
to  be  roused  from  your  gloomy  fancies." 

"You  know  me  thoroughly.''  You  really  think  so? 
I'm  afraid  all  you  know  is  the  now  antiquated  opinion 
your  fiance  has  of  me." 

It  was  no  use  talking,  my  "  charming  friend  "  was  well 
informed  and  knew  how  to  read  a  man's  heart,  even  from 
a  distance.  She  was  one  of  those  obstinate  creatures  who 
strive  to  sway  the  spirits  of  men  by  insinuating  them- 
selves into  the  hidden  depths  of  their  souls.  She  kept 
up  a  large  correspondence,  bombarded  all  her  acquaint- 
ances with  letters,  gave  advice  and  warning  to  young 
people,  and  knew  no  greater  happiness  than  to  direct  and 
guide  the  destinies  of  men.  Greedy  of  power,  head  of  a 
league  for  the  salvation  of  souls,  patroness  of  all  the 
world,  she  had  conceived  it  her  mission  to  save  me ! 

She  was  a  schemer  of  the  purest  water,  with  little 
intelligence  but  a  great  deal  of  female  impudence. 

I  began  to  tease  her  by  making  fun  of  everything,  the 
world,  men,  religion.     She  told  me  my  ideas  were  morbid. 

"  Morbid !  My  dear  lady,  my  ideas  morbid  ?  They 
are,  on  the  contrary,  most  healthy  and  of  the  latest  date. 
But  what  about  yours  now?  They  are  relics  of  a  past  age, 
commonplaces  of  my  boyhood,  the  rubbish  of  rubbish, 
and  you  think  them  new?  Candidly  speaking,  what  you 
offer  me  as  fresh  fruit  is  nothing  but  preserved  stuff  in 
badly  soldered  tins.  Away  with  it !  It's  rotten !  You 
know  what  I  mean." 


8  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

She  left  me  without  a  word  of  good-bye,  furious,  unable 
to  control  herself. 

When  she  had  gone  I  went  to  join  my  friends  in  the 
Park,  and  spent  the  evening  with  them. 

I  had  not  quite  got  over  my  excitement  on  the  following 
morning  when  I  received  a  communication  from  her.  It 
was  a  vainglorious  letter  in  which  she  overwhelmed  me 
with  reproaches,  largely  tempered  by  forbearance  and 
compassion;  she  expressed  ardent  wishes  for  my  mental 
health,  and  concluded  by  arranging  a  second  meeting,  and 
stating  that  we  ought  to  pay  a  visit  to  her  fiance's  aged 
mother. 

As  I  rather  pride  myself  on  my  manners,  I  resigned 
myself  to  my  fate;  but,  determined  to  get  off  as  cheaply 
as  possible,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  appear  perfectly 
indifferent  to  all  questions  relating  to  religion,  the  world 
and  everything  else. 

But  how  wonderful!  The  lady,  dressed  in  a  tightly 
fitting  cloth  dress,  trimmed  with  fur,  and  wearing  a  large 
picture  hat,  greeted  me  most  cordially;  she  was  full  of 
the  tender  solicitude  of  an  elder  sister,  avoided  all  danger- 
ous ground,  and  was  altogether  so  charming  that  our 
souls,  thanks  to  a  mutual  desire  to  please,  met  in  friendly 
talk,  and  before  we  parted  a  feeling  of  genuine  sympathy 
had  spnmg  up  between  us. 

After  having  paid  our  call  we  took  advantage  of  the 
lovely  spring  day  and  went  for  a  stroll. 

I  am  not  sure  whether  it  was  from  an  imperative  desire 
to  pay  her  out,  or  whether  I  felt  annoyed  at  having  been 
made  to  play  the  part  of  a  confidant;  whatever  it  was, 
the  iniquitous  idea  occurred  to  me  to  tell  her,  in  strict 
confidence,  that  I  was  practically  engaged  to  be  married ; 
this  was  only  half  a  lie,  for  I  was  really  paying  at  that 
time  a  good  deal  of  attention  to  a  certain  lady  of  my 
acquaintance. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  9 

On  hearing  this,  her  manner  changed.  She  talked  to 
me  like  a  grandmother,  began  to  pity  the  girl,  questioned 
me  about  her  character,  her  looks,  her  social  status,  her 
circumstances.  I  painted  a  portrait  well  calculated  to 
excite  her  jealousy.  Our  eager  conversation  languished. 
My  guardian  angel's  interest  in  me  waned  when  she  sus- 
pected a  rival  who  might  possibly  be  equally  anxious  to 
save  my  soul. 

We  parted,  still  under  the  influence  of  the  chill  which 
had  gradually  arisen  between  us. 

When  we  met  on  the  following  day  we  talked  exclusively 
of  love  and  my  supposed  fiancee. 

But  after  we  had  visited  theatres  and  concerts  for  a 
week  and  taken  numerous  walks  together,  she  had  gained 
her  object.  The  daily  intercourse  with  her  had  become 
a  habit  of  which  I  felt  unable  to  break  myself.  Conversa- 
tion with  a  woman  who  is  above  the  commonplace  has 
an  almost  sensual  charm.  The  souls  touch,  the  spirits 
embrace  each  other. 

One  morning,  on  meeting  her  as  usual,  I  found  her 
almost  beside  herself.  She  was  full  of  a  letter  which  she 
had  just  received.  Her  fiance  was  furiously  jealous.  She 
accused  herself  of  having  been  indiscreet;  he  was  recom- 
mending her  the  utmost  reserve  in  her  intercourse  with 
me:  he  seemed  to  have  a  presentiment  that  the  matter 
would  end  badly, 

"  I  can't  understand  such  detestable  jealousy,"  she  said, 
deeply  distressed. 

"  Because  you  don't  understand  the  meaning  of  the 
word  '  love,'  "  I  answered. 

"  Love !    Ugh !  " 

"  Love,  my  dear  lady,  is  consciousness  of  possession  in 
its  greatest  intensity.  Jealousy  is  but  the  fear  of  losing 
what  one  possesses." 

"Possesses!     Disgusting!" 


10  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  Mutually  possesses,  since  each  possesses  the  other." 

But  she  refused  to  understand  love  in  that  sense.  In 
her  opinion  love  was  something  disinterested,  exalted, 
chaste,  inexplicable. 

She  did  not  love  her  fiance,  but  he  was  head  over  ears 
in  love  with  her. 

When  I  said  so  she  lost  her  temper,  and  then  confessed 
that  she  had  never  loved  him. 

"  And  yet  you  contemplate  marrying  him  ?  " 

"  Because  he  would  be  lost  if  I  didn't." 

"  Always  that  mania  for  saving  souls !  " 

She  grew  more  and  more  angry;  she  maintained  that 
she  was  not,  and  never  had  been,  really  engaged  to  him. 

We  had  caught  each  other  lying;  what  prospects! 

There  remained  nothing  for  me  to  do  now  but  to  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  contradict  my  previous  statement 
that  I  was  "  as  good  as  engaged."  This  done,  we  were 
at  liberty  to  make  use  of  our  freedom. 

As  she  had  now  no  longer  any  cause  for  jealousy,  the 
game  began  afresh,  and  this  time  we  played  it  in  deadly 
earnest.  I  confessed  my  love  to  her — in  writing.  She 
forwarded  the  letter  to  her  fiance.  He  heaped  insults  on 
my  head — by  post. 

I  told  her  that  she  must  choose  between  him  and  me. 
But  she  carefully  refrained  from  doing  so,  for  her  object 
was  to  have  me,  him,  and  as  many  more  as  she  could  get, 
kneeling  at  her  feet  and  adoring  her.  She  was  a  flirt,  a 
mangeuse  d'hommes,  a  chaste  jwlyandrist. 

But,  perhaps  for  want  of  some  one  better,  I  had  fallen 
in  love  with  her,  for  I  loathed  casual  love-affairs,  and  the 
solitude  of  my  attic  bored  me. 

Towards  the  end  of  her  stay  in  town  I  invited  her  to 
pay  me  a  visit  at  the  library.  I  wanted  to  dazzle  her, 
show  myself  to  her  in  impressive  surroundings,  so  as  to 
overawe  this  arrogant  little  braim 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  11 

I  dragged  her  from  gallery  to  gallery,  exhibiting  all 
my  bibliographical  knowledge.  I  compelled  her  to  admire 
the  miniatures  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  autographs  of 
famous  men.  I  evoked  the  great  historical  memories  held 
captive  in  old  manuscripts  and  prints.  In  the  end  her 
insignificance  came  home  to  her  and  she  became  em- 
barrassed. 

"  But  you  are  a  very  learned  man !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Of  course  I  am/'  I  laughed. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  old  mummer !  "  she  murmured,  alluding 
to  her  friend,  the  opera  singer,  her  so-called  fiance. 

But  if  I  had  flattered  myself  that  the  munmier  was  now 
finally  disposed  of,  I  was  mistaken.  He  was  threatening 
to  shoot  me — by  post;  he  accused  me  of  having  robbed 
him  of  his  future  bride.  I  proved  to  him  that  he  could 
not  have  been  robbed,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  had 
not  possessed  anything.  After  that  our  correspondence 
ceased  and  gave  way  to  a  menacing  silence. 

Her  visit  was  drawing  to  an  end.  On  the  eve  of  her 
departure  I  received  a  jubilant  letter  from  her,  telling 
me  of  an  unexpected  piece  of  good  luck.  She  had  read 
my  play  to  some  people  of  note  who  had  influence  with 
stage  managers.  The  play  had  made  such  an  impression 
on  them  that  they  were  anxious  to  make  my  acquaint- 
ance.    She  would  tell  me  all  the  details  in  the  afternoon. 

At  the  appointed  hour  I  met  her  and  accompanied  her 
on  a  shopping  expedition  to  make  a  few  last  purchases. 
She  was  talking  of  nothing  but  the  sensation  my  play  had 
created,  and  when  I  explained  to  her  that  I  hated  patron- 
age of  any  sort,  she  did  her  utmost  to  convert  me  to  her 
point  of  view.  I  paid  little  attention  to  her  and  went  on 
grumbling.  The  idea  of  ringing  at  unknown  front  doors, 
meeting  strangers  and  talking  to  them  of  everything 
except  that  which  was  nearest  to  my  heart,  was  hateful 
to  me ;  I  could  not  whine  like  a  beggar  for  favours. 


1«  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

I  was  fighting  her  as  hard  as  I  could  when  suddenly  she 
stopped  before  a  young,  aristocratic-looking  lady,  very 
well,  even  elegantly  dressed,  with  movements  full  of  soft- 
ness and  grace. 

The  lady,  whom  she  introduced  as  Baroness  X,  said 
a  few  words  to  me  which  the  noise  of  the  crowd  rendered 
all  but  inaudible.  I  stammered  a  reply,  annoyed  at  hav- 
ing been  caught  in  a  trap  set  for  me  by  a  wily  little 
schemer.  For  I  felt  certain  the  meeting  had  been  pre- 
meditated. 

A  few  seconds  more  and  the  Baroness  had  gone,  but 
not  without  having  personally  repeated  the  invitation 
which  my  companion  had  already  brought  me  a  little 
earlier  in  the  afternoon. 

The  girlish  appearance  and  baby  face  of  the  Baroness, 
who  must  have  been  at  least  twenty-five  years  of  age, 
surprised  me.  She  looked  like  a  schoolgirl;  her  little  face 
was  framed  by  roguish  curls,  golden  as  a  cornfield  on 
which  the  sun  is  shining;  she  had  the  shoulders  of  a 
princess  and  a  supple,  willowy  figure;  the  way  in  which 
she  bowed  her  head  expressed  at  the  same  time  candour, 
respect  and  superiority. 

And  this  delicious,  girlish  mother  had  read  my  play 
without  hurt  or  injury?     Was  it  possible? 

She  had  married  a  captain  of  the  Guards,  was  the 
mother  of  a  little  girl  of  three,  and  took  a  passionate 
interest  in  the  theatre,  without,  however,  having  the 
slightest  prospect  of  ever  being  able  to  enter  the  profes- 
sion herself;  a  sacrifice  demanded  from  her  by  the  rank 
and  position  not  only  of  her  husband,  but  also  of  her 
father-in-law,  who  had  recently  received  the  appointment 
of  a  gentleman-in-waiting. 

This  was  the  position  of  affairs  when  my  love-dream 
melted  away.  A  steamer  was  bearing  my  lady-love  into 
the   presence   of  her   mummer.      He   would   vindicate   his 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  13 

rights  now  and  take  a  delight  in  making  fun  of  my  letters 
to  her:  just  retribution  for  having  laughed  at  his  letters  in 
the  company  of  his  inamorata  while  she  was  staying  here. 

On  the  landing-stage,  at  the  very  moment  of  our  affec- 
tionate farewell,  she  made  me  promise  to  call  on  the 
Baroness  without  delay.  These  were  the  last  words  we 
exchanged. 

The  innocent  daydreams,  so  different  from  the  coarse 
orgies  of  learned  Bohemia,  left  a  void  in  my  heart  which 
craved  to  be  filled.  The  friendly,  seemingly  harmless 
intercourse  with  a  gentlewoman,  this  intercourse  between 
two  people  of  opposite  sexes,  had  been  sweet  to  me  after 
my  long  solitude,  for  I  had  quarrelled  with  my  family  and 
was,  therefore,  very  lonely.  The  love  of  home  life,  which 
my  Bohemian  existence  had  deadened  for  a  while,  was 
reawakened  by  my  relations  with  a  very  ordinary  but 
respectable  member  of  the  other  sex.  And,  therefore,  one 
evening  at  six  o'clock,  I  found  myself  at  the  entrance  gate 
of  a  house  in  North  Avenue. 

How  ominous !  It  was  the  old  house  which  had 
belonged  to  my  father,  the  house  in  which  I  had  spent 
the  most  miserable  years  of  my  childhood,  where  I  had 
fought  through  the  troubles  and  storms  of  adolescence, 
where  I  had  been  confirmed,  where  m>  mother  had  died, 
and  where  a  stepmother  had  taken  her  place.  I  suddenly 
felt  ill  at  ease,  and  my  first  impulse  was  one  of  flight.  I 
was  afraid  to  stir  up  the  memories  of  the  misery  of  my 
youth  and  early  manhood.  There  was  the  courtyard  with 
its  tall  ash  trees;  how  impatiently  I  used  to  wait  for  the 
tender  young  green  on  the  return  of  spring;  there  was  the 
gloomy  house,  built  against  a  sand-quarry,  the  unavoid- 
able collapse  of  which  had  lowered  the  rents. 

But  in  spite  of  the  feeling  of  depression  caused  by  so 
many  melancholy  memories,  I  pulled  myself  together, 
entered,  walked  upstairs  and  rang  the  bell. 


14  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

As  I  stood  listening  to  the  sound  echoing  through  the 
house,  I  had  a  feeling  that  my  father  would  presently 
come  and  open  the  door  to  me.  But  a  servant  appeared 
and  disappeared  again  to  announce  me.  A  few  seconds 
afterwards  I  stood  face  to  face  with  the  Baron,  who  gave 
me  a  hearty  welcome.  He  was  a  man  of  about  thirty 
years  of  age,  tall  and  strong,  with  a  noble  carriage  and 
the  perfect  manners  of  a  gentleman.  His  full,  slightly 
swollen  face  was  animated  by  a  pair  of  intensely  sad  blue 
eyes.  The  smile  on  his  lips  was  for  ever  giving  way  to 
an  expression  of  extraordinary  bitterness,  which  spoke  of 
disappointments,  plans  miscarried,  illusions  fled. 

The  drawing-room,  once  upon  a  time  our  dining-room, 
was  not  furnished  in  any  particular  style.  The  Baron, 
who  bore  the  name  of  a  famous  general,  a  Turenne  or 
Conde  of  our  country,  had  filled  it  with  the  portraits  of 
his  ancestors,  dating  back  to  the  Thirty  Years'  War; 
heroes  in  white  cuirasses  with  wigs  of  the  time  of  Louis 
XIV.  Amongst  them  hung  landscapes  of  the  Diisseldorf 
school  of  painting.  Pieces  of  old  furniture,  restored  and 
gilded,  stood  side  by  side  with  chairs  and  easy-chairs  of 
a  more  modern  date.  The  whole  room  seemed  to  breathe 
an  atmosphere  of  peace  and  domestic  love. 

Presently  the  Baroness  joined  us;  she  was  charming, 
almost  cordial,  simple  and  kind.  But  there  was  a  certain 
stiffness  in  her  manner,  a  suspicion  of  embarrassment 
which  chilled  me  until  I  discovered  a  reason  for  it  in  the 
sound  of  voices  which  came  from  an  adjacent  room.  I 
concluded  that  she  had  other  visitors,  and  apologised  for 
having  called  at  an  inconvenient  time.  They  were  playing 
whist  in  the  next  room,  and  I  was  forthwith  introduced 
to  four  members  of  the  family:  the  gentleman-in- waiting, 
a  retired  captain,  and  the  Baroness's  mother  and  aunt. 

As  soon  as  the  old  people  had  sat  down  again  to  play, 
we  younger  ones  began  to  talk.     The   Baron  mentioned 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  15 

his  great  love  of  painting.  A  scholarship,  granted  him 
by  the  late  King  Charles  XV,  had  enabled  him  to  pursue 
his  studies  at  Diisseldorf.  This  fact  constituted  a  point 
of  contact  between  us,  for  I  had  had  a  scholarship  from 
the  same  king,  only  in  my  case  it  had  been  granted  for 
literary  purposes. 

We  discussed  painting,  the  theatre,  the  personality  of 
our  patron.  But  gradually  the  flow  of  conversation 
ceased,  largely  checked  by  the  whist  players,  who  joined 
in  every  now  and  then,  laying  rude  fingers  on  sensitive 
spots,  tearing  open  scarcely  healed  wounds.  I  began  to 
feel  ill  at  ease  in  this  heterogeneous  society  and  rose  to 
go.  The  Baron  and  his  wife,  who  accompanied  me  to 
the  door,  dropped  their  constrained  manner  as  soon  as 
they  were  out  of  earshot  of  the  old  people.  They  asked 
me  to  a  friendly  dinner  on  the  following  Saturday,  and 
after  a  little  chat  in  the  passage  we  parted  as  old  friends. 


II 

Punctually  at  three  o'clock  on  the  following  Saturday 
I  started  for  the  house  in  North  Avenue.  I  was  received 
like  an  old  friend  and  unhesitatingly  admitted  to  the 
intimacies  of  the  home.  Mutual  confidences  added  a 
delightful  flavour  to  the  meal.  The  Baron,  who  was  dis- 
satisfied with  his  position,  belonged  to  a  group  of  mal- 
contents which  had  arisen  under  the  new  rule  of  King 
Oscar.  Jealous  of  the  great  popularity  which  his  late 
brother  had  enjoyed,  the  new  ruler  took  pains  to  neglect 
all  plans  fostered  by  his  predecessor.  The  friends  of  the 
old  order,  its  frank  joviality,  its  toleration  and  progressive 
endeavour,  stood  aside,  therefore,  and  formed  an  intel- 
lectual opposition  without,  however,  taking  any  part  in 
party  politics.  While  we  sat,  evoking  the  ghosts  of  the 
past,  our  hearts  were  drawn  together.  All  prejudices 
nursed  in  the  heart  of  the  commoner  against  the  aristoc- 
racy, which  since  the  parliamentary  reform  of  1865  had 
gradually  receded  more  and  more  into  the  background, 
vanished  and  gave  place  to  a  feeling  of  sympathy  for  the 
fallen  stars. 

The  Baroness,  a  native  of  Finland,  was  a  new-comer  in 
Sweden,  and  not  sufficiently  informed  to  take  part  in  our 
conversation.  But  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over  she  went 
to  the  piano  and  began  to  sing,  and  both  the  Baron  and 
I  discovered  that  we  possessed  an  hitherto  unsuspected 
talent  for  the  duets  of  Wennerberg. 

The  hours  passed  rapidly. 

We  amused  ourselves  by  casting  the  parts  and  reading 

16 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  17 

a  short  play  which  had  just  been  played  at  the  Royal 
Theatre. 

But  suddenly  our  spirits  flagged  and  the  inevitable 
pause  ensued;  that  awkward  pause  which  is  sure  to  occur 
after  exhaustive  efforts  to  shine  and  make  conquests. 
Again  the  memories  of  the  past  oppressed  me  and  I  grew 
silent. 

"  What's  the  matter }  "  asked  the  Baroness. 

"  There  are  ghosts  in  this  house/'  I  replied,  trying  to 
account  for  my  silence.  "  Ages  ago  I  lived  here — yes,  yes, 
ages  ago,  for  I  am  very  old." 

"  Can't  we  drive  away  those  ghosts .''  "  she  asked,  look- 
ing at  me  with  a  bewitching  expression,  full  of  motherly 
tenderness. 

"I'm  afraid  we  can't;  that's  the  privilege  of  some  one 
else,"  laughed  the  Baron ;  "  she  alone  can  banish  the 
gloomy  thoughts.  Come  now,  you  are  engaged  to  Miss 
Selma  }  " 

"  No,  you  are  mistaken.  Baron ;  it  was  love's  labour 
lost." 

"What!  is  she  bound  to  some  one  else.''"  asked  the 
Baron,  scrutinising  my  face. 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry !  That  girl's  a  treasure.  And  I'm  certain 
that  she  is  fond  of  you." 

And  forthwith  the  three  of  us  began  to  rail  against  the 
unfortunate  singer,  accusing  him  of  attempting  to  compel 
a  woman  to  marry  him  against  her  will.  The  Baroness 
tried  to  comfort  me  by  insisting  that  things  were  bound 
to  come  right  in  the  end,  and  promised  to  intercede  for 
me  on  her  next  trip  to  Finland,  which  was  to  take  place 
very  shortly. 

"  No  one  shall  succeed,"  she  assured  me,  with  an  angry 
flash  in  her  eyes,  "  in  forcing  that  dear  girl  into  a  mar- 
riage of  which  her  heart  doesn't  approve." 


18  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

It  'Was  seven  o'clock  as  I  rose  to  go.  But  they  pressed 
me  so  eagerly  to  spend  the  evening  with  them  that  I  almost 
suspected  them  of  being  bored  in  each  other's  company, 
although  they  had  only  been  married  for  three  years,  and 
Heaven  had  blessed  their  union  with  a  dear  little  girl. 
They  told  me  that  they  expected  a  cousin,  and  were  anxious 
that  I  should  meet  her  and  tell  them  what  I  thought  of  her. 

While  we  were  still  talking,  a  letter  was  handed  to  the 
Baron.  He  tore  it  open,  read  it  hastily,  and,  with  a 
muttered  exclamation,  handed  it  to  his  wife. 

"  Incredible !  "  she  exclaimed,  glancing  at  the  contents, 
and,  after  a  questioning  look  at  her  husband,  she  continued : 
"  She's  my  own  cousin,  you  know,  and  her  parents  won't 
permit  her  to  stay  at  our  house  because  people  have  been 
gossiping." 

"  It's  preposterous !  "  exclaimed  the  Baron.  "  A  mere 
child,  pretty,  innocent,  unhappy  at  home,  who  likes  being 
with  us,  her  near  relatives  .  .  .  and  people  gossiping! 
Bah !  " 

Did  a  sceptic  smile  betray  me.''  His  remark  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  dead  silence,  a  certain  confusion,  badly  con- 
cealed under  an  invitation  to  take  a  turn  round  the  garden. 

I  left  after  supper,  about  ten  o'clock,  and  no  sooner 
had  I  crossed  the  threshold  than  I  began  to  ponder  on 
the  happenings  of  that  eventful  day. 

In  spite  of  every  appearance  of  happiness,  and  notwith- 
standing their  evident  affection,  I  felt  convinced  that  my 
friends  harboured  a  very  formidable  skeleton  in  their 
cupboard.  Their  wistful  eyes,  their  fits  of  absent-mind- 
edness, something  unspoken,  but  felt,  pointed  to  a  hidden 
grief,  to  secrets,  the  discovery  of  which  I  dreaded. 

Why  in  the  world,  I  asked  myself,  do  they  live  so  quietly, 
voluntary  exiles  in  a  wretched  suburb.''  They  were  like 
two  shipwrecked  people  in  their  eagerness  to  pour  out 
their  hearts  to  the  first  comer. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  19 

The  Baroness  in  particular  perplexed  me.  I  tried  to 
call  up  her  picture,  but  was  confused  by  the  wealth  of 
contradictory  characteristics  which  I  had  discovered  in 
her,  and  from  which  I  had  to  choose.  Kindhearted, 
amiable,  brusque,  enthusiastic,  communicative  and  re- 
served, cold  and  excitable,  she  seemed  to  be  full  of  whims, 
brooding  over  ambitious  dreams.  She  was  neither  com- 
monplace nor  clever,  but  she  impressed  people.  Of 
Byzantine  slenderness,  which  allowed  her  dress  to  fall  in 
simple,  noble  folds,  like  the  dress  of  a  St.  Cecilia,  her' 
body  was  of  bewitching  proportions,  her  wrists  and  ankles 
exquisitely  beautiful.  Every  now  and  then  the  pale,  some- 
what rigid  features  of  her  little  face  warmed  into  life  and 
sparkled  with  infectious  gaiety. 

It  was  difficult  to  say  who  was  master  in  the  house.  He, 
the  soldier,  accustomed  to  command,  but  burdened  with 
a  weak  constitution,  seemed  submissive,  more,  I  thought, 
from  indifference  than  want  of  will-power.  They  were 
certainly  on  friendly  terms,  but  there  was  none  of  the 
ecstasy  of  young  love.  When  I  made  their  acquaintance 
they  were  delighted  to  rejuvenate  themselves  by  calling  up 
the  memories  of  the  past  before  a  third  person.  In  study- 
ing them  more  closely,  I  became  convinced  that  they  lived 
on  relics,  bored  each  other,  and  the  frequent  invitations 
which  I  received  after  my  first  call  proved  that  my  con- 
clusions were  correct. 

On  the  eve  of  the  Baroness's  departure  for  Finland  I 
called  on  her  to  say  good-bye.  It  was  a  lovely  evening 
in  June.  The  moment  I  entered  the  courtyard  I  caught 
sight  of  her  behind  the  garden  railings;  she  was  standing 
in  a  shrubbery  of  aristolochias,  and  the  transcendent 
beauty  of  her  appearance  came  upon  me  almost  with  a 
shock.  She  was  dressed  in  a  white  pique  dress,  richly 
embroidered,  the  masterpiece  of  a  Russian  serf;  her  chain, 


20  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

brooches  and  bangles  of  alabaster  seemed  to  throw  a  soft 
light  over  her,  like  lamplight  falling  through  an  opalescent 
globe.  The  broad  green  leaves  threw  death-like  hues  on 
her  pale  face,  with  its  shining  coal-black  eyes. 

I  was  shaken,  utterly  confused,  as  if  I  were  gazing  at 
a  vision.  The  instinct  of  worship,  latent  in  my  heart, 
awoke,  and  with  it  the  desire  to  proclaim  my  adoration. 
The  void  which  had  once  been  filled  by  religion  ached  no 
longer;  the  yearning  to  adore  had  reappeared  under  a  new 
form.  God  was  deposed,  but  His  place  was  taken  by 
woman,  woman  who  was  both  virgin  and  mother;  when 
I  looked  at  the  little  girl  by  her  side,  I  could  not  under- 
stand how  that  birth  had  been  possible,  for  the  relation- 
ship between  her  and  her  husband  seemed  to  put  all  sexual 
intercourse  out  of  the  question;  their  union  appeared 
essentially  spiritual.  Henceforth  this  woman  represented 
to  me  a  soul  incarnate,  a  soul  pure  and  unapproachable, 
clothed  with  one  of  those  radiant  bodies  which,  according 
to  the  Scriptures,  clothe  the  souls  of  the  dead.  I  wor- 
shipped her — I  could  not  help  worshipping  her.  I  wor- 
shipped her  just  as  she  was,  as  she  appeared  to  me  at  that 
moment,  as  mother  and  wife;  wife  of  a  particular  hus- 
band, mother  of  a  particular  child.  Without  her  husband 
my  longing  to  worship  could  not  have  been  satisfied,  for, 
I  said  to  myself,  she  would  then  be  a  widow,  and  should 
I  still  worship  her  as  such?  Perhaps  if  she  were  mine — 
my  wife?  .  .  .  No!  the  thought  was  unthinkable.  And, 
moreover,  married  to  me,  she  would  no  longer  be  the  wife 
of  this  particular  man,  the  mother  of  this  particular  child, 
the  mistress  of  this  particular  house.  Such  as  she  was  I 
adored  her,  I  would  not  have  her  otherwise. 

Was  it  because  of  the  melancholy  recollections  which 
the  house  always  awakened  in  me,  or  was  it  because  of 
the  instincts  of  the  commoner  who  never  fails  to  admire 
the    upper    classes,    the    purer    blood? — a    feeling    which 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  21 

would  die  on  the  day  on  which  she  stood  less  high — the 
adoration  which  I  had  conceived  for  her  resembled  in 
every  point  the  religion  from  which  I  had  just  emancipated 
myself.  I  wanted  to  adore,  I  was  longing  to  sacrifice 
myself,  to  suffer  without  hope  of  any  other  reward  but  the 
ecstasies  of  worship,  self-sacrifice  and  suffering. 

I  constituted  myself  her  guardian  angel.  I  wanted  to 
watch  over  her,  lest  the  power  of  my  love  should  sweep 
her  off  her  feet  and  engulf  her.  I  carefully  avoided  being 
alone  with  her,  so  that  no  familiarity  which  her  husband 
might  resent  should  creep  in  between  us. 

But  to-day,  on  the  eve  of  her  departure,  I  found  her 
alone  in  the  shrubbery.  We  exchanged  a  few  common- 
places. But  presently  my  excitement  rose  to  such  a  pitch 
that  it  communicated  itself  to  her.  Gazing  at  her  with 
burning  eyes,  I  saw  the  desire  to  confide  in  me  forming 
itself  in  her  heart.  She  told  me  that  the  thought  of  a 
separation  from  husband  and  child,  however  short,  made 
her  miserable.  She  implored  me  to  spend  as  much  of  my 
leisure  with  them  as  I  could,  and  not  to  forget  her  while 
she  was  looking  after  my  interests  in  Finland. 

"  You  love  her  very  much — with  all  your  heart,  don't 
you?  "  she  asked,  looking  at  me  steadfastly. 

"  Can  you  ask."*  "  I  replied,  depressed  by  the  painful  lie. 

For  I  had  no  longer  any  doubt  that  my  May  dream 
had  been  nothing  more  than  a  fancy,  a  whim,  a  mere 
pastime. 

Afraid  of  polluting  her  with  my  passion,  fearful  of 
entangling  her  against  my  will  in  the  net  of  my  emotions, 
intending  to  protect  her  against  myself,  I  dropped  the 
perilous  subject  and  asked  after  her  husband.  She  pulled 
a  face,  evidently  interpreting  my  somewhat  strange  be- 
haviour quite  correctly.  Perhaps,  also — the  suspicion  rose 
in  my  mind  much  later — he  found  pleasure  in  the  thought 
that  her  beauty  confused  me.     Or,  maybe,  she  was  con- 


ftSt  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

scions  at  that  moment  of  the  terrible  power  she  had  ac- 
quired over  me,  a  Joseph  whose  coldness  was  only  assumed, 
whose  chastity  was  enforced. 

"  I'm  boring  you,"  she  said  smilingly;  "  I'd  better  call 
for  reinforcements." 

And  with  a  clear  voice  she  called  to  her  husband,  who 
was  in  his  room  upstairs. 

The  window  was  thrown  open  and  the  Baron  appeared, 
a  friendly  smile  on  his  open  countenance.  A  few  minutes 
later  he  joined  us  in  the  garden.  He  was  wearing  the 
handsome  uniform  of  the  Guards  and  looked  very  distin- 
guished. With  his  dark-blue  tunic,  embroidered  in  yellow 
and  silver,  his  tall,  well-knit  figure,  he  formed  an  ex- 
quisite contrast  to  the  slender  woman  in  white  who  stood 
at  his  side.  They  were  really  a  strikingly  handsome  couple ; 
the  charms  of  the  one  served  but  to  heighten  those  of  the 
other.  The  sight  of  them  was  an  artistic  treat,  a  brilliant 
spectacle. 

After  dinner  the  Baron  proposed  that  we  should  accom- 
pany his  wife  on  the  steamer  as  far  as  the  last  customs 
station.  This  proposal,  to  which  I  gladly  agreed,  seemed 
to  give  the  Baroness  a  great  deal  of  pleasure;  she  was 
delighted  with  the  prospect  of  admiring  the  Stockholm 
Archipelago  from  the  deck  of  a  steamer  on  a  beautiful 
summer  night. 

At  ten  o'clock  on  the  following  evening  we  met  on 
board  the  steamer  a  short  time  before  the  hour  of  starting. 
It  was  a  clear  night;  the  sky  was  a  blaze  of  brilliant 
orange,  the  sea  lay  before  us,  calm  and  blue. 

We  slowly  steamed  past  the  wooded  shores,  in  a  light 
which  was  neither  day  nor  night,  but  had  the  qualities 
of  both,  and  impressed  the  beholder  as  being  sunrise  and 
sunset  at  the  same  time. 

After  midnight  our  enthusiasm,  which  had  been  kept 
alive    by    the    constantly    changing    panorama    and    the 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  23 

memories  which  it  called  up,  cooled  a  little.  We  were 
fighting  against  an  overwhelming  desire  to  sleep.  The 
early  dawn  foixnd  us  with  pallid  faces,  shivering  in  the 
morning  breeze.  We  suddenly  became  sentimental;  we 
swore  eternal  friendship;  it  was  fate  that  had  thrown  us 
together — we  dimly  discerned  that  fatal  bond  which  was  to 
connect  our  lives  in  the  future.  I  was  beginning  to  look 
haggard,  for  I  had  not  yet  regained  my  strength  after 
an  attack  of  intermittent  fever;  they  treated  me  like  an 
ailing  child;  the  Baroness  wrapped  her  rug  round  me  and 
made  me  drink  some  wine,  all  the  while  talking  to  me 
with  a  mother's  tenderness.  I  let  them  have  their  way. 
I  was  almost  delirious  with  want  of  sleep;  my  pent-up 
feelings  overflowed;  this  womanly  tenderness,  the  secret 
of  which  none  but  a  motherly  woman  knows,  was  a  new 
experience  to  me.  I  poured  out  on  her  a  deluge  of 
respectful  homage;  over-excited  by  sleeplessness,  I  became 
lightheaded,  and  gave  the  reins  to  my  poetical  imagination. 

The  wild  hallucinations  of  the  sleepless  night  took  shape, 
vague,  mystic,  unsubstantial;  the  power  of  my  suppressed 
talent  revealed  itself  in  light  visions.  I  spoke  for  hours, 
without  interruption,  drawing  inspiration  from  two  pairs 
of  eyes,  which  gazed  at  me  fascinated.  I  felt  as  if  my 
frail  body  was  being  consumed  by  the  burning  fire  of  my 
imagination.     I  lost  all  sense  of  my  corporeal  presence. 

Suddenly  the  sun  rose,  the  myriads  of  islets  which  seem 
to  be  swimming  in  the  bay  appeared  enveloped  in  flames; 
the  branches  of  the  pines  glowed  like  copper,  the  slender 
needles  yellow  as  sulphur;  the  window-panes  of  the  cot- 
tages, dotted  along  the  shore,  sparkled  like  golden  mir- 
rors ;  the  columns  of  smoke  rising  from  the  chimneys  indi- 
cated that  breakfasts  were  being  cooked;  the  fishing-boats 
were  setting  sail  to  bring  in  the  outspread  nets;  the  sea- 
gulls, scenting  the  small  herring  underneath  the  dark 
green  waves,  were  screaming  themselves  hoarse.     But  on 


»4i  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

the  steamer  absolute  silence  reigned.  The  travellers  were 
still  fast  asleep  in  their  cabins,  we  alone  were  on  deck. 
The  captain,  heavy  with  sleep,  was  watching  us  from  the 
bridge,  wondering,  no  doubt,  what  we  could  be  talking 
about. 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  pilot  cutter  ap- 
peared from  behind  a  neck  of  land,  and  parting  was  im- 
minent. 

Only  a  few  of  the  larger  islands  now  separated  us  from 
the  open  sea;  the  swell  of  the  ocean  was  already  distinctly 
discernible;  we  could  hear  the  roar  of  the  huge  breakers 
on  the  steep  cliffs  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  land. 

The  time  to  say  good-bye  had  arrived.  They  kissed 
one  another,  he  and  she,  full  of  painful  agitation.  She 
took  my  hand  in  hers  and  pressed  it  passionately,  her 
eyes  full  of  tears;  she  begged  her  husband  to  take  care 
of  me,  and  implored  me  to  comfort  him  during  her  absence. 

I  bowed,  I  kissed  her  hand  without  a  thought  of  the 
proprieties,  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  I  was  betraying 
my  secret. 

The  engines  stopped,  the  steamer  slowed  down,  the  pilot 
took  up  his  position  between  decks.  Two  steps  towards 
the  accommodation  ladder — I  descended,  and  found  my- 
self at  the  side  of  the  Baron  in  the  pilot  cutter. 

The  steamer  towered  above  our  heads.  Leaning  against 
the  rail,  the  Baroness  looked  down  upon  us  with  a  sad 
smile,  her  innocent  eyes  brimming  over  with  tears.  The 
propeller  slowly  began  to  move,  the  giant  got  under  way 
again,  her  Russian  flag  fluttering  in  the  breeze.  We  were 
tossing  on  the  rolling  waves,  waving  our  handkerchiefs. 
The  little  face  grew  smaller  and  smaller,  the  delicate 
features  were  blotted  out,  two  great  eyes  only  remained 
gazing  at  us  fixedly,  and  presently  they  too  were  swallowed 
up  like  the  rest.  Another  moment  and  only  a  fluttering 
bluish  veil,  attached  to  a  Japanese  hat,  was  visible,  and  a 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  25 

waving  white  handkerchief;  then  only  a  white  spot,  a 
tiny  white  dot;  now  nothing  but  the  unwieldy  giant,  wrapped 
in  grey  smoke.   .    .    . 

We  went  ashore  at  the  Pilots  and  Customs  Station,  a 
popular  summer  resort.  The  village  was  still  asleep;  not 
a  soul  was  on  the  landing-stage,  and  we  turned  and 
watched  the  steamer  altering  her  course  to  starboard,  and 
disappearing  behind  the  rocky  island  which  formed  the 
last  bulwark  against  the  sea. 

As  the  steamer  disappeared  the  Baron  leaned  against 
my  shoulder,  and  I  fancied  I  could  hear  a  sob;  thus  we 
stood  for  a  while  without  speaking  a  word. 

Was  this  excessive  grief  caused  by  sleeplessness — by  the 
exhaustion  following  a  long  vigil  .^  Had  he  a  presenti- 
ment of  misfortune,  or  was  it  merely  the  pain  of  parting 
with  his  wife.''    I  couldn't  say. 

We  went  to  the  village,  depressed  and  taciturn,  in  the 
hope  of  getting  some  breakfast.  But  the  inn  was  not  yet 
astir.  We  walked  through  the  street  and  looked  at  the 
closed  doors,  the  drawn  blinds.  Beyond  the  village  we 
came  upon  an  isolated  spot  with  a  quiet  pool.  The  water 
was  clear  and  transparent,  and  tempted  us  to  bathe  our 
eyes.  I  produced  a  little  case  and  took  from  it  a  clean 
handkerchief,  a  toothbrush,  a  piece  of  soap  and  a  bottle 
of  eau  de  Cologne.  The  Baron  laughed  at  my  fastidious- 
ness, but,  nevertheless,  availed  himself  gratefully  of  the 
chance  of  a  hasty  toilet,  borrowing  from  me  the  necessary 
implements. 

On  returning  to  the  village  I  noticed  the  smell  of  coal- 
smoke  coming  from  the  direction  of  the  alder  trees  on  the 
shore.  I  implied  by  a  gesture  that  this  was  a  last  farewell 
greeting  brought  by  the  wind  from  the  steamer.  But  the 
Baron  pretended  not  to  understand  my  meaning. 

He  was  a  distressing  sight  at  breakfast,  with  his  big, 
sleepy  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  and  his  swollen  features. 


26  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Both  of  us  suffered  from  self-consciousness;  he  was  in  a 
gloomy  mood  and  kept  up  an  obstinate  silence.  Once  he 
seized  my  hand  and  apologised  for  his  absent-mindedness, 
but  almost  directly  afterwards  he  relapsed  into  gloom.  I 
made  every  effort  to  rouse  him,  but  in  vain;  we  were  out 
of  harmony,  the  tie  between  us  was  broken.  An  expres- 
sion of  coarseness  and  vulgarity  had  stolen  into  his  face, 
usually  so  frank  and  pleasant.  The  reflection  of  the 
charm,  the  living  beauty  of  his  beloved  wife  had  vanished; 
the  uncouth  man  had  appeared. 

I  was  imable  to  guess  at  his  thoughts.  Did  he  suspect 
my  feelings.''  To  judge  from  his  behaviour  he  must  have 
been  a  prey  to  very  conflicting  emotions,  for  at  one  minute 
he  pressed  my  hand,  calling  me  his  best,  his  only  friend, 
at  the  next  he  seemed  oblivious  of  my  presence. 

I  discovered  with  a  feeling  of  dismay  that  we  only  lived 
in  her  and  for  her.  Since  our  sun  had  set  we  seemed  to 
have  lost  all  individuality. 

I  determined  to  shake  him  off  as  soon  as  we  got  back 
to  town,  but  he  held  on  to  me,  entreating  me  to  accom- 
pany him  to  his  house. 

When  we  entered  the  deserted  home,  we  felt  as  if  we 
had  entered  a  chamber  of  death.  A  moisture  came  into 
our  eyes. 

Full  of  confusion  and  embarrassment,  I  did  not  know 
what  to  do. 

"It's  too  absurd,"  I  said  at  last,  laughing  at  myself; 
"  here  are  a  captain  of  the  Guards  and  a  royal  secretary 
whimpering  like " 

"  It's  a  relief,"  he  interrupted  me. 

He  sent  for  his  little  girl,  but  her  presence  only 
aggravated  the  bitter  feeling  of  regret  at  our  loss. 

It  was  now  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  He  had  come 
to  the  end  of  his  powers  of  endurance,  and  invited  me  to 
take  a  nap  on  the  sofa  while  he  went  to  lie  down  on  his 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  27 

bed.  He  put  a  cushion  under  my  head,  covered  me  with 
his  military  cloak  and  wished  me  a  sound  sleep,  thanking 
me  cordially  for  having  taken  compassion  on  his  loneliness. 
His  brotherly  kindness  was  like  an  echo  of  his  wife's 
tenderness;  she  seemed  to  fill  his  thoughts  completely. 

I  sank  into  a  deep  sleep,  dimly  aware,  at  the  moment 
before  losing  consciousness,  of  his  huge  form  stealing  to 
my  improvised  couch  with  a  murmured  question  as  to 
whether  I  was  quite  comfortable. 

It  was  noon  when  I  awoke.  He  was  already  up.  He 
hated  the  idea  of  being  alone,  and  proposed  that  we 
should  breakfast  together  in  the  Park.  I  readily  fell  in 
with  his  suggestion. 

We  spent  the  day  together,  talking  about  all  sorts  of 
things,  but  every  subject  led  us  back  to  her  on  whose  life 
our  own  lives  seemed  to  have  been  grafted. 


Ill 

I  SPENT  the  two  following  days  alone,  yearning  for  the 
solitude  of  my  library,  the  cellars  of  which,  once  the 
sculpture  rooms  of  the  museum,  suited  my  mood.  The 
large  room,  built  in  the  rococo  style  and  looking  on  to  the 
"  Lions'  Court,"  contained  the  manuscripts.  I  spent  a 
great  deal  of  time  there,  reading  at  haphazard  anything 
which  seemed  old  enough  to  draw  my  attention  from 
recent  events.  But  the  more  I  read,  the  more  the  present 
melted  into  the  past,  and  Queen  Christine's  letters,  yellow 
with  age,  whispered  into  my  ears  words  of  love  from  the 
Baroness. 

To  avoid  the  company  of  inquisitive  friends,  I  shimned 
my  usual  restaurant.  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
degrading  my  tongue  by  confessing  my  new  faith  before 
those  scoffers;  they  should  never  know.  I  was  jealous 
of  my  own  personality,  which  was  henceforth  consecrated 
to  her  only.  As  I  went  through  the  streets,  I  had  a  vision 
of  acolites  walking  before  me,  their  tinkling  bells  an- 
nouncing to  the  passers-by  the  approach  of  the  Holy 
of  Holies  enshrined  in  the  monstrance  of  my  heart.  I 
imagined  myself  in  mourning,  deep  mourning  for  a  queen, 
and  longed  to  bid  the  crowd  bare  their  heads  at  the 
passing  of  my  stillborn  love,  which  had  no  chance  of 
ever  quickening  into  life. 

On  the  third  day  I  was  roused  from  my  lethargy  by 
the  rolling  of  drums  and  the  mournful  strains  of  Chopin's 
Funeral  March.     I  rushed  to  the  window  and  noticed  the 

28 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  29 

captain  marching  by  at  the  head  of  his  Guards.  He 
looked  up  at  my  window  and  acknowledged  my  presence 
with  a  nod  and  a  smile.  The  band  was  playing  his  wife's 
favourite  piece,  at  his  orders,  and  the  unsuspicious 
musicians  had  no  inkling  that  they  played  it  in  her  honour 
for  him  and  for  me,  and  before  an  even  less  auspicious 
audience. 

Half-an-hour  later  the  Baron  called  for  me  at  the 
library.  I  took  him  through  the  passages  in  the  base- 
ment, overcrowded  with  cupboards  and  shelves,  into  the 
manuscript  room.  He  looked  cheerful,  and  at  once  com- 
municated to  me  the  contents  of  a  letter  he  had  received 
from  his  wife.  All  was  going  on  well.  She  had  enclosed 
a  note  for  me.  I  devoured  it  with  my  eyes,  trying  hard 
to  hide  my  excitement.  She  thanked  me  frankly  and 
graciously  for  having  looked  after  "  her  old  man  " ;  she 
said  she  had  felt  flattered  by  my  evident  grief  at  parting, 
and  added  that  she  was  staying  with  my  "  guardian 
angel,"  to  whom  she  was  getting  more  and  more  attached. 
She  expressed  great  admiration  for  her  character,  and, 
in  conclusion,  held  out  hopes  of  a  happy  ending.  That 
was  all. 

So  she  was  in  love  with  me,  this  "  guardian  angel  "  of 
mine !  This  monster !  The  very  thought  of  her  now 
filled  me  with  horror.  I  was  compelled  to  act  the  part 
of  a  lover  against  my  will;  I  was  condemned  to  play  an 
abominable  farce,  perhaps  all  my  life  long.  The  truth 
of  the  old  adage  that  one  cannot  play  with  fire  without 
burning  one's  fingers  came  home  to  me  with  terrible 
force.  Caught  in  my  own  trap,  I  pictured  to  myself  in 
my  wrath  the  detestable  creature  who  had  forced  herself 
upon  me:  she  had  the  eyes  of  a  Mongolian,  a  sallow  face, 
red  arms.  With  angry  satisfaction  I  recalled  her  seduc- 
tive ways,  her  suspicious  behaviour,  which  more  than  once 
had  set  my  friends  wondering  what  species  of  woman  it 


80  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

was  with  whom  I  was  seen  so  constantly  walking  about  the 
parks  and  suburbs. 

The  remembrance  of  her  tricks,  her  attentions,  her 
flattering  tongue,  gave  me  a  kind  of  vicious  pleasure.  I 
remembered  a  way  she  had  of  pulling  out  her  watch  and 
showing  a  little  bit  of  dainty  underclothing.  I  remem- 
bered a  certain  Sunday  in  the  Park.  We  were  strolling 
along  the  broad  avenues  when  she  all  at  once  proposed 
that  we  should  walk  through  the  shubbery.  Her  pro- 
posal irritated  me,  for  the  shrubbery  had  an  evil  reputa- 
tion, but  she  answered  all  my  objections  with  a  short 
"  Bother  propriety !  " 

She  wanted  to  gather  anemones  under  the  hazel  bushes. 
She  left  me  standing  in  the  avenue  and  disappeared  behind 
the  shrubs.  I  followed,  confused.  She  sat  down  in  a 
sheltered  spot  under  an  alder  tree,  spreading  out  her  skirts 
and  showing  off  her  feet,  which  were  small  but  disfigured 
by  bunions.  An  uncomfortable  silence  fell  between  us. 
I  thought  of  the  old  maids  of  Corinth.  .  .  .  She  looked 
at  me  with  an  expression  of  childlike  innocence  .  .  .  she 
was  safe  from  me,  her  very  plainness  saved  her,  and, 
moreover,  I  took  no  pleasure  in  easy  conquests. 

Every  one  of  these  details,  which  I  had  always  put 
away  from  me  as  odious,  came  into  my  mind  and 
oppressed  me,  now  that  there  seemed  a  prospect  of 
winning  her.  I  prayed  fervently  for  the  comedian's 
success. 

But  I  had  to  be  patient  and  hide  my  feelings. 

While  I  was  reading  his  wife's  note,  the  Baron  sat  down 
at  the  table,  which  was  littered  with  old  books  and  docu- 
ments. He  was  playing  with  his  carved  ivory  baton, 
absent-mindedly,  as  if  he  were  conscious  of  his  inferiority 
in  literary  matters.  He  defeated  all  my  attempts  to 
interest  him  in  my  work  with  an  indifferent,  "  Yes,  yes, 
very  interesting !  " 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  31 

Abashed  by  the  evidences  of  his  rank,  his  neckpiece, 
the  sash,  the  brilliant  uniform,  I  endeavoured  to  readjust 
the  balance  by  showing  off  my  knowledge.  But  I  only 
succeeded  in  making  him  feel  uncomfortable. 

The  sword  versus  the  pen!  Down  with  the  aristocrat, 
up  with  the  commoner!  Did  the  woman,  when  later  on 
she  chose  the  father  of  her  children  from  the  aristocracy 
of  the  brain,  see  the  future,  clairvoyantly,  without  being 
conscious  of  it? 

In  spite  of  his  constant  efforts  to  treat  me  as  his  equal, 
the  Baron,  without  admitting  it  even  to  himself,  was 
always  constrained  in  my  presence.  At  times  he  paid 
due  deference  to  my  superior  knowledge,  tacitly  acknowl- 
edging his  inferiority  to  me  in  certain  resj>ects;  at  other 
times  he  would  ride  the  high  horse;  then  a  word  from 
the  Baroness  was  sufficient  to  bring  him  to  his  senses.  In 
his  wife's  eyes  the  inherited  coat  of  arms  counted  for 
very  little,  and  the  dusty  coat  of  the  man  of  letters 
completely  eclipsed  the  full-dress  uniform  of  the  captain. 
Had  he  not  been  himself  aware  of  this  when  he  donned  a 
painter's  blouse  and  entered  the  studio  at  Diisseldorf  as 
the  least  of  all  the  pupils?  In  all  probability  he  had, 
but  still  there  always  remained  a  certain  refinement,  an 
inherited  tradition,  and  he  was  by  no  means  free  from  the 
jealous  hatred  which  exists  between  students  and  officers. 

For  the  moment  I  was  necessary  to  him,  as  I  shared 
his  sorrow,  and  therefore  he  invited  me  to  dine  with 
him. 

After  the  coffee  he  suggested  that  we  should  both  write 
to  the  Baroness.  He  brought  me  paper  and  pen,  and 
compelled  me  to  write  to  her,  against  my  will;  I  racked 
my  brain  for  platitudes  under  which  to  hide  the  thoughts 
of  my  heart. 

When  I  had  finished  my  letter  I  handed  it  to  the  Baron 
and  asked  him  to  read  it. 


8J8  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  I  never  read  other  people's  letters,"  he  answered, 
with  hypocritical  pride. 

"  And  I  never  write  to  another  man's  wife  without  that 
man's  full  knowledge  of  the  correspondence." 

He  glanced  at  my  letter,  and,  with  an  enigmatical 
smile,  enclosed  it  in  his  own. 

I  saw  nothing  of  him  during  the  rest  of  the  week,  until 
I  met  him  one  evening  at  a  street  comer.  He  seemed 
very  pleased  to  see  me,  and  we  went  into  a  cafe  to  have 
a  chat. 

He  had  just  returned  from  the  country,  where  he  had 
spent  a  few  days  with  his  wife's  cousin.  Without  ever 
having  met  that  charming  person,  I  was  easily  able  to 
draw  a  mental  picture  of  her  from  the  traces  of  her 
influence  on  the  Baron's  character.  He  had  lost  his 
haughtiness  and  his  melancholy.  There  was  a  gay,  some- 
what dissipated  look  on  his  face,  and  he  enriched  his 
vocabulary  by  a  few  expressions  of  doubtful  taste;  even 
the  tone  of  his  voice  was  altered. 

"  A  weak  mind,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  swayed  by  every 
emotion;  a  blank  slate  on  which  the  lightest  of  women 
may  write  sense  or  folly,  according  to  her  sweet  will." 

He  behaved  like  the  hero  in  comic  opera;  he  joked, 
told  funny  tales  and  was  in  boisterous  spirits.  His  charm 
was  gone  with  his  uniform;  and  when,  after  supper, 
slightly  intoxicated,  he  suggested  that  we  should  call  on 
certain  female  friends  of  his,  I  thought  him  positively 
repulsive.  With  the  exception  of  the  neckpiece,  the  sash 
and  the  uniform,  he  really  possessed  no  attractions 
whatever. 

When  his  intoxication  had  reached  its  climax,  he  lost 
all  sense  of  shame  and  began  to  discuss  the  secrets  of  his 
married  life.  I  interrupted  him  indignantly  and  proposed 
that  we  should  go  home.  He  assured  me  that  his  wife 
allowed  him  full  license  during  her  absence.     At  first  I 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  33 

thought  this  more  than  human,  but  later  on  it  confirmed 
the  opinion  I  had  formed  of  the  Baroness's  naturaUy 
frigid  temperament.  We  parted  very  early,  and  I  re- 
turned to  my  room,  my  brain  on  fire  with  the  indiscreet 
disclosure  which  I  had  been  made  to  listen  to. 

This  woman,  although  apparently  in  love  with  her  hus- 
band, after  a  union  of  three  years  not  only  permitted 
him  every  freedom,  but  did  so  without  claiming  the  same 
right  for  herself.  It  was  strange,  unnatural,  like  love 
without  jealousy,  light  without  shade.  No!  it  was  im- 
possible; there  must  be  another  cause.  He  had  told  me 
the  Baroness  was  naturally  cold.  That,  too,  seemed 
strange.  Or  was  she  really  an  embodiment  of  the  virgin 
mother,  such  as  I  had  already  dimly  divined.''  And  was 
not  chastity,  purity  of  the  soul,  so  closely  linked  to 
refinement  of  manners,  a  characteristic,  an  attribute  of  a 
superior  race?  I  had  not  been  deceived,  then,  in  my 
youthful  meditations  when  a  young  girl  roused  my  admira- 
tion without  in  the  least  exciting  my  senses.  Beautiful 
childish  dreams !  Charming  ignorance  of  woman,  that 
problem  unspeakably  more  complex  than  a  bachelor  ever 
dreams  of! 

At  last  the  Baroness  returned,  radiant  with  health; 
the  memories  awakened  by  meeting  again  the  friends  of 
her  girlhood  seemed  to  have  rejuvenated  her. 

"  Here  is  the  dove  with  the  oHve  branch,"  she  said, 
handing  me  a  letter  from  my  so-called  sweetheart. 

With  anything  but  genuine  enjoyment  I  waded  through 
the  presumptuous  twaddle,  the  effusions  of  a  heartless 
blue-stocking,  anxious  to  win  independence  by  marriage — 
any  marriage,  and  while  I  was  reading  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  put  an  end  to  the  matter. 

"  Do  you  know  for  certain,"  I  asked  the  Baroness, 
"  whether  the  lady  is  engaged  to  the  singer  or  not  ?  " 

"  Yes  and  no." 


34  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  Has  she  given  him  her  word  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Does  she  want  to  marry  him?  " 

"  No." 

"  Do  her  parents  wish  it.''  " 

"  No." 

"  Why  is  she  so  determined  to  marry  him,  then?  " 

"  Because   ...    I  don't  know." 

"  Is  she  in  love  with  me?  " 

"  Perhaps  she  is." 

"  Then  she  is  simply  a  husband-hunter.  She  has  but 
one  thought,  to  make  a  bargain  with  the  highest  bidder. 
She  doesn't  know  what  love  is." 

"  What  is  love?  " 

"  A  passion  stronger  than  all  others,  a  force  of  nature 
absolutely  irresistible,  something  akin  to  thunder,  to 
rising  floods,  a  waterfall,  a  storm " 

She  gazed  into  my  eyes,  forgetting  the  reproaches 
which,  in  the  interest  of  her  friend,  had  risen  to  the  tip 
of  her  tongue. 

"  And  is  your  love  for  her  a  force  like  that?  "  she  asked. 

I  had  a  strong  impulse  to  tell  her  everything. 

But,  supposing  I  did?  .  .  .  The  bond  between  us 
would  be  broken,  and,  without  the  lie  which  protected 
me  from  my  criminal  passion,  I  should  be  lost. 

Afraid  of  committing  myself,  I  asked  her  to  drop  the 
subject.  I  said  that  my  cruel  sweetheart  was  dead  as  far 
as  I  was  concerned,  and  that  all  that  remained  for  me 
to  do  was  to  forget  her. 

The  Baroness  did  her  utmost  to  comfort  me,  but  she 
did  not  cloak  the  fact  that  I  had  a  dangerous  rival  in  the 
singer,  who  was  on  the  sj>ot  and  in  personal  contact  with 
his  lady-love. 

The  Baron,  evidently  bored  by  our  conversation,  inter- 
rupted us  peevishly,  telling  us  that  we  should  end  by 
burning  our  fingers. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  35 

"  This  meddling  with  other  people's  love  affairs  is  utter 
folly !  "  he  exclaimed,  almost  rudely ;  the  Baroness's  face 
flushed  with  indignation.  I  hastily  changed  the  subject 
to  avoid  a  scene. 

The  ball  had  been  set  rolling.  The  lie,  originally  a 
mere  whim,  grew.  Full  of  apprehension  and  shame,  I 
told  myself  fairy  tales  which  I  ended  in  believing.  In 
them  I  played  the  part  of  the  ill-starred  lover,  a  part 
which  came  easy  enough,  for  with  the  exception  of  the 
object  of  my  tenderness,  the  fairy  tales  agreed  in  every 
detail  with  reality. 

I  was  indeed  caught  in  my  own  net.  One  day,  on 
returning  home,  I  found  "  her "  father's  card.  I  re- 
turned his  call  at  once.  He  was  a  little  old  man,  un- 
pleasantly like  his  daughter,  the  caricature  of  a  caricature. 
He  treated  me  in  every  way  as  he  would  his  prospective 
son-in-law.  He  inquired  about  my  family,  my  income, 
my  prospects.  It  was  a  regular  cross-examination.  The 
matter  threatened  to  become  serious. 

What  was  I  to  do.''  Hoping  to  divert  his  attention 
from  me,  I  made  myself  as  insignificant  as  possible  in  his 
eyes.  The  reason  of  his  visit  to  Stockholm  was  obvious. 
Either  he  wanted  to  shake  off  the  singer,  whom  he  dis- 
liked, or  the  lady  had  made  up  her  mind  to  honour  me 
with  her  hand  if  an  expert  should  approve  of  her  bargain. 

I  showed  myself  from  my  most  unpleasant  side,  avoided 
every  opportunity  of  meeting  him,  refused  even  an  invita- 
tion to  dinner  from  the  Baroness;  I  tired  my  unlucky 
would-be  father-in-law  out  by  giving  him  the  slip  again 
and  again,  pleading  urgent  duty  at  the  library,  until  I 
had  gained  my  purpose,  and  he  departed  before  the 
appointed  time. 

Did  my  rival  ever  guess  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for 
his  matrimonial  misery  when  he  married  his  bride-elect? 
No  doubt  he  never  knew,  and  proudly  imagined  that  he 
had  ousted  me. 


36  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

An  incident  which  to  some  extent  affected  our  destiny 
was  the  sudden  departure  of  the  Baroness  and  her  little 
daughter  to  the  country.  It  was  in  the  beginning  of 
August.  For  reasons  of  health  she  had  chosen  Mariafred, 
a  small  village  on  the  Lake  of  Malar,  where  at  the  moment 
the  little  cousin  happened  to  be  staying  with  her  parents. 

This  hurried  departure  on  the  day  after  her  home- 
coming struck  me  as  very  extraordinary;  but,  as  it  was 
none  of  my  business,  I  made  no  comment.  Three  days 
passed,  then  the  Baron  wrote  asking  me  to  call.  He  ap- 
peared to  be  restless,  very  nervous  and  strange.  He  told 
me  that  the  Baroness  would  be  back  almost  immediately. 

"  Indeed !  "  I  exclaimed,  more  astonished  than  I  cared 
to  show. 

"  Yes !  .  .  .  her  nerves  are  upset,  the  climate  doesn't 
suit  her.  She  has  written  me  an  unintelligible  letter 
which  frightens  me.  I  have  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand her  whims  .  .  .  she  gets  all  sorts  of  fantastic  ideas 
into  her  head.  Just  at  present  she  imagines  that  you 
are  angry  with  her !  " 

"  I!  " 

"  It's  too  absurd !  "  he  continued,  "  but  don't  take 
any  notice  of  it  when  she  returns;  she's  ashamed  of  her 
moods;  she's  proud,  and  if  she  thought  you  disapproved 
of  her,  she  would  only  commit  fresh  follies." 

"It  has  come  at  last,"  I  said  to  myself;  "the  catas- 
trophe is  imminent!"  And  from  that  moment  my 
thoughts  were  bent  on  flight,  for  I  had  no  desire  to  figure 
as  the  hero  of  a  romance  of  passion. 

I  refused  the  next  invitation,  making  excuses  which 
were  badly  invented  and  wrongly  understood.  The  result 
was  a  call  from  the  Baron ;  he  asked  me  what  I  meant  by 
my  unfriendly  conduct.''  I  did  not  know  what  explanation 
to  give,  and  he  took  advantage  of  my  embarrassment  and 
exacted  a  promise  from  me  to  join  them  in  an  excursion. 

I   found  the  Baroness  looking  ill  and  worn  out;   only 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  37 

the  black  eyes  in  the  livid  face  seemed  alive  and  shone 
with  unnatural  brilliancy.  I  was  very  reserved,  spoke  in 
indifferent  tones  and  said  as  little  as  possible. 

On  leaving  the  steamer,  we  went  to  a  famous  hotel 
where  the  Baron  had  arranged  to  meet  his  uncle.  The 
supp>er,  which  was  served  in  the  open,  was  anything  but 
gay.  Before  us  spread  the  sinister  lake,  shut  in  by 
gloomy  mountains;  above  our  heads  waved  the  branches 
of  the  lime  trees,  the  blackened  trunks  of  which  were 
over  a  hundred  years  old. 

We  talked  commonplaces,  but  our  conversation  was 
dull  and  soon  languished.  I  fancied  that  I  could  feel 
the  after-effects  of  a  quarrel  between  my  hx>sts,  which 
had  not  yet  been  patched  up  and  was  on  the  verge  of  a 
fresh  outbreak.  I  ardently  desired  to  avoid  the  storm, 
but,  unfortunately,  uncle  and  nephew  left  the  table  to 
discuss  business  matters.     Now  the  mine  would  explode ! 

As  soon  as  we  were  alone  the  Baroness  leaned  toward 
me  and  said  excitedly — 

"  Do  you  know  that  Gustav  is  angry  with  me  for 
coming  back  unexpectedly.''  " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  Then  you  don't  know  that  he'd  been  building  on 
meeting  my   charming  cousin  on   his   free  Sundays  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Baroness,"  I  exclaimed,  interrupting  her,  "  if 
you  want  to  bring  charges  against  your  husband,  hadn't 
you  better  do  it  in  his  presence?  " 

.  .  .  What  had  I  done?  It  was  brutal,  this  harsh, 
uncompromising  rebuke,  flung  into  the  face  of  a  disloyal 
wife  in  defence  of  a  member  of  my  own  sex. 

"  How  dare  you !  "  she  cried,  amazed,  changing  colour. 
"  You're  insulting  me !  " 

"  Yes,  Baroness,  I  am  insulting  you." 

All  was  over  between  us,  for  ever. 

As  soon  as  her  husband  returned  she  hastened  towards 
him,  as   if  she   were  seeking  protection   from  an   enemy. 


38  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

The  Baron  noticed  that  something  was  wrong,  but  he 
could  not  understand  her  excitement. 

I  left  them  at  the  landing-stage,  pretending  that  I  had 
to  pay  a  visit  at  one  of  the  neighbouring  villas. 

I  don't  know  how  I  got  back  to  town.  My  legs  seemed 
to  carry  a  lifeless  body;  the  vital  node  was  cut,  I  was  a 
corpse  walking  along  the  streets. 

Alone !  I  was  alone  again,  without  friends,  without 
a  family,  without  anything  to  worship.  It  was  impos- 
sible for  me  to  recreate  God.  The  statue  of  the  Madonna 
had  fallen  dcwn;  woman  had  shown  herself  behind  the 
beautiful  image,  woman,  treacherous,  faithless,  with 
sharp  claws !  When  she  attempted  to  make  me  her 
confidant,  she  was  taking  the  first  step  towards  breaking 
her  marriage  vows;  at  that  moment  the  hatred  of  her  sex 
was  born  in  me.  She  had  insulted  the  man  and  the 
sex  in  me,  and  I  took  the  part  of  her  husband  against 
her.  Not  that  I  flattered  myself  with  being  a  virtuous 
man,  but  in  love  man  is  never  a  thief,  he  only  takes 
what  is  given  to  him.  It  is  woman  who  steals  and  sells 
herself.  The  only  time  when  she  gives  unselfishly  is  when 
she  betrays  her  husband.  The  prostitute  sells  herself,  the 
young  wife  sells  herself;  the  faithless  wife  only  gives  to 
her  lover  that  which  she  has  stolen  from  her  husband. 

But  I  had  not  desired  this  woman  in  any  other  way 
than  as  a  friend.  Protected  from  me  by  her  child,  I  had 
always  seen  her  invested  with  the  insignia  of  motherhood. 
Always  seeing  her  at  the  side  of  her  husband,  I  had 
never  felt  the  slightest  temptation  to  indulge  in  pleasures 
which  are  gross  in  themselves,  and  ennobled  only  by  entire 
and  exclusive  possession. 

I  returned  to  my  room  annihilated,  completely  crushed, 
more  lonely  than  ever,  for  I  had  dropj>ed  my  Bohemian 
friends  from  the  very  outset  of  my  relations  with  the 
Baroness. 


IV 

I  OCCUPIED  in  those  days  a  fairly  large  attic  with  two 
windows  which  looked  on  the  new  harbour,  the  bay  and 
the  rocky  heights  of  the  southern  suburbs.  Before  the 
windows,  on  the  roof,  I  had  managed  to  create  a  garden 
of  tiny  dimensions.  Bengal  roses,  azaleas  and  geraniums 
provided  me  in  their  turn  with  flowers  for  the  secret  cult 
of  my  Madonna  with  the  child.  It  had  become  a  daily 
habit  with  me  to  pull  down  the  blinds  towards  the  even- 
ing, arrange  my  flower-pots  in  a  semicircle,  and  place  the 
picture  of  the  Baroness,  with  the  lamplight  full  on  it, 
amongst  them.  She  was  represented  on  this  portrait  as 
a  young  mother,  with  somewhat  severe,  but  deliciously 
pure  features,  her  delicate  head  crowned  with  a  wealth  of 
golden  hair.  She  wore  a  light  dress  which  reached  up 
to  her  chin  and  was  finished  off  with  a  pleated  frill;  her 
little  daughter,  dressed  in  white,  was  standing  on  a  table 
by  the  side  of  her,  gazing  at  the  beholder  with  pensive 
eyes.  How  many  letters  "  to  my  friends "  had  I  not 
written  before  this  portrait  and  sent  off  on  the  following 
morning  addressed  to  the  Baron!  These  letters  were  at 
that  time  the  only  channel  into  which  I  could  pour  my 
literary  aspirations,  and  my  inmost  soul  was  laid  bare  in 
themi. 

To  open  a  career  for  the  erratic,  artistic  soul  of  the 
Baroness,  I  had  tried  to  encourage  her  to  seek  an  outlet 
for  her  poetic  imagination  in  literary  work.  I  had  pro- 
vided her  with  the  masterpieces  of  all  literatures,  had 
taught  her  the  first  principles  of  literary  composition  by 

39 


40  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

furnishing  endless  summaries,  commentaries  and  analyses, 
to  which  I  added  advice  and  practical  illustrations.  She 
had  been  only  moderately  interested,  for  she  doubted  her 
literary  talent  from  the  outset.  I  told  her  that  every 
educated  person  possessed  the  ability  to  write  at  least 
a  letter,  and  was  therefore  a  poet  or  author  in  posse. 
But  it  was  all  in  vain;  the  passion  for  the  stage  had 
taken  firm  hold  of  her  obstinate  brain.  She  insisted  that 
she  was  a  bom  elocutionist,  and,  because  her  rank  pre- 
vented her  from  following  her  inclination  and  going  on 
the  stage  (an  ardently  desired  contingency),  she  posed  as 
a  martyr,  heedless  of  the  disastrous  consequences  which 
threatened  to  overtake  her  home  life.  Her  husband  sym- 
pathised with  my  benevolent  efforts,  undertaken  in  the 
hope  of  saving  the  domestic  peace  of  the  family  from 
shipwreck.  He  was  grateful,  although  he  had  not  the 
courage  to  take  an  active  and  personal  interest  in  the 
matter.  The  Baroness's  opposition  notwithstanding,  I 
had  continued  my  efforts  and  urged  her  in  every  letter  to 
break  the  fateful  spell  which  held  her,  and  make  an  effort 
to  write  a  poem,  a  drama,  or  a  novel. 

"  Your  life  has  been  an  eventful  one,"  I  said  to  her 
in  one  of  my  letters ;  "  why  not  make  use  of  your  own 
experience? "  And,  quoting  from  Borne,  I  added, 
"  Take  paper  and  pen  and  be  candid,  and  you  are  bound 
to  become  an  authoress." 

"  It's  too  painful  to  live  an  unhappy  life  all  over 
again,"  she  had  replied.  "  I  want  to  find  forgetfulness 
in  art;  I  want  to  merge  my  identity  into  characters 
different  from  my  own." 

I  had  never  asked  myself  what  it  was  that  she  wanted  to 
forget.  I  knew  nothing  of  her  past  life.  Did  she  shrink 
from  allowing  me  to  solve  the  riddle?  Was  she  afraid 
of  handing  me  the  key  to  her  character?  Was  she 
anxious  to  hide  her  true  self  behind  the  personalities  of 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  41 

stage  heroines,  or  did  she  hope  to  increase  her  own 
magnitude  by  assuming  the  identities  of  her  superiors? 

When  I  had  come  to  the  end  of  my  arguments,  I 
suggested  that  she  should  make  a  start  by  translating 
the  works  of  foreign  authors ;  I  told  her  this  would  help 
to  form  her  style  and  make  her  known  to  publishers. 

"  Is  a  translator  well  paid?  "  she  asked, 

"  Fairly  well,"  I  replied,  "  if  she  knows  her  business." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  think  me  mercenary,"  she  continued, 
"  but  work  for  its  own  sake  doesn't  attract  me." 

Like  so  many  women  of  our  time,  she  was  seized  with 
the  mania  of  earning  her  own  living.  The  Baron  made 
a  grimace  plainly  indicative  of  the  fact  that  he  would  far 
rather  see  her  taking  an  active  interest  in  the  management 
of  her  house  and  servants,  than  contributing  a  few  shil- 
lings towards  the  expenses  of  a  neglected  home. 

Since  that  day  she  had  given  me  no  peace,  begging  me 
to  find  her  a  good  book  and  a  publisher. 

I  had  done  my  utmost,  and  had  succeeded  in  procuring 
for  her  two  quite  short  articles,  destined  for  "  Miscella- 
neous Items  "  in  one  of  the  illustrated  magazines,  which 
did  not,  however,  remunerate  its  contributors.  For  a 
whole  week  I  heard  nothing  of  the  work,  which  could 
easily  have  been  accomplished  in  a  couple  of  hours.  She 
lost  her  temper  when  the  Baron  teasingly  called  her  a 
sluggard;  in  fact,  she  was  so  angry  that  I  saw  he  had 
touched  a  very  sore  spot,  and  stopped  all  further  allusions, 
afraid  of  making  serious  mischief  between  the  couple. 

This  was  how  matters  stood  at  the  time  of  my  rupture 
with  her. 

...  I  sat  in  my  attic  with  her  letters  before  me  on 
the  table.  As  I  re-read  them,  one  after  the  other,  my 
heart  ached  for  her.  She  was  a  soul  in  torment,  a  power 
wasted,  a  voice  unable  to  make  itself  heard,  just  like 
myself.     This    was   the    secret   of   our   mutual    sympathy. 


4«  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

I  suffered  through  her  as  if  she  were  a  diseased  organ 
grafted  on  my  sick  soul,  which  had  itself  become  too 
blunted  and  dull  to  sense  the  pleasure  of  exquisite  pain. 

And  what  had  she  done  that  I  should  deprive  her  of 
miy  sympathy?  In  a  moment  of  jealousy  she  had  com- 
plained to  me  of  her  unhappy  marriage.  And  I  had 
repulsed  her,  I  had  spoken  harshly  to  her,  when  I  ought 
to  have  reasoned  with  her;  it  would  not  have  been  an 
impossible  task,  for  hadn't  her  husband  told  me  that  she 
allowed  him  every  licence? 

I  was  seized  with  an  immense  compassion  for  her;  no 
doubt,  in  her  soul  lay,  shrouded  in  profound  mystery, 
fateful  secrets,  physical  and  psychical  aberrations.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  should  be  guilty  of  a  terrible  wrong 
if  I  let  her  come  to  ruin.  When  my  depression  had 
reached  its  climax  I  began  a  letter  to  her,  asking  her  to 
forgive  me.  I  begged  her  to  forget  what  had  happened, 
and  tried  to  explain  the  painful  incident  by  a  misunder- 
standing on  my  part.  But  the  words  would  not  come, 
my  pen  refused  to  obey  me.  Worn  out  with  fatigue, 
I  threw  myself  on  my  bed. 

The  following  morning  was  warm  and  cloudy,  a  typical 
August  morning.  At  eight  o'clock  I  went  to  the  library, 
melancholy  and  depressed.  As  I  had  a  key,  I  was  able 
to  let  myself  in  and  spend  three  hours  in  jjcrfect  solitude 
before  the  general  public  began  to  arrive,  I  wandered 
through  the  passages,  between  rows  of  books  on  either 
side,  in  that  exquisite  solitude  which  is  not  loneliness,  in 
close  communion  with  the  great  thinkers  of  all  times. 
Taking  out  a  volume  here  and  there,  I  tried  to  fix  my 
mind  on  some  definite  subject  in  order  to  forget  the 
painful  scene  of  yesterday.  But  I  could  not  banish  the 
desecrated  image  of  the  fallen  Madonna  from  my  mind. 
When  I  raised  my  eyes  from  the  pages,  which  I  had  read 
without  understanding  a  word,  I  seemed  to  see  her,  as  in 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  43 

a  vision,  coming  down  the  spiral  staircase,  which  wound 
in  endless  perspective  at  the  back  of  the  galleries.  She 
lifted  the  straight  folds  of  her  blue  dress,  showing  her 
perfect  feet  and  slender  ankles,  looking  at  me  furtively, 
with  a  sidelong  glance,  tempting  me  to  the  betrayal  of 
her  husband,  soliciting  me  with  that  treacherous  and 
voluptuous  smile  which  I  had  yesterday  seen  for  the  first 
time.  The  apparition  awakened  all  the  sensuality  which 
had  lain  dormant  in  my  heart  for  the  last  three  months, 
for  the  pure  atmosphere  which  surrounded  her  had  kept 
away  from  me  all  lascivious  thoughts.  Now  all  the 
passion  which  burnt  in  me  concentrated  itself  on  a  single 
object.  I  desired  her.  My  imagination  painted  for  me 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  her  white  limbs.  I  selected  a 
work  on  art  which  contained  illustrations  of  all  the  famous 
sculptures  in  the  Italian  museums,  hoping  to  discover 
this  woman's  formula  by  systematic  scientific  research. 
I  wanted  to  find  out  species  and  genus  to  which  she 
belonged.     I  had  plenty  to  choose  from. 

Was  she  Venus,  full-bosomed  and  broad-hipj>ed,  the 
normal  woman,  who  awaits  her  lover,  sure  of  her  triumph- 
ant beauty? 

No! 

Juno,  then,  the  fertile  mother,  who  keeps  her  regal 
charms  for  the  marriage-bed.'' 

By  no  means ! 

Minerva,  the  blue-stocking,  the  old  maid,  who  hides 
her  flat  bosom  under  a  coat  of  mail.'' 

On  no  account! 

Diana  then,  the  pale  goddess  of  night,  fearful  of  the 
sun,  cruel  in  her  enforced  chastity,  more  boy  than  girl, 
modest  because  she  needs  must  be  so — Diana,  who  could 
not  forgive  Actaeon  for  having  watched  her  while  bathing? 
Was  she  Diana  ?     The  species,  perhaps,  but  not  the  genus ! 

The    future    will    speak    the    last    word!     With    that 


44  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

delicate  body,  those  exquisite  limbs,  that  sweet  face,  that 
proud  smile,  that  modestly  veiled  bosom,  could  she  be 
yearning  for  blood  and  forbidden  fruit?  Diana?  Yes, 
unmistakably  Diana ! 

I  continued  my  research;  I  looked  through  a  number 
of  publications  on  art  stored  up  in  this  incomparable 
treasure-house  of  the  State,  so  as  to  study  the  various 
representations  of  the  chaste  goddess. 

I  compared;  like  a  scientist,  I  proved  my  point,  again 
and  again  rushing  from  one  end  of  the  huge  building  to 
the  other  to  find  the  volumes  to  which  I  was  being 
referred. 

The  striking  of  a  clock  recalled  me  from  the  world  of 
my  dreams;  my  colleagues  were  beginning  to  arrive,  and 
I  had  to  enter  on  my  daily  duties. 

I  decided  to  sj)end  the  evening  at  the  club  with  my 
friends.  On  entering  the  laboratory,  I  was  greeted  with 
deafening  acclamations,  which  raised  my  spirits.  The 
centre  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  a  table  dressed  like 
an  altar,  in  the  middle  of  which  stood  a  skull  and  a  large 
bottle  of  cyanide  of  potassium.  An  open  Bible,  stained 
with  punch  spots,  lay  beside  the  skull.  Surgical  instru- 
ments served  as  bookmarkers.  A  number  of  punch- 
glasses  were  arranged  in  a  circle  all  round.  Instead  of 
a  ladle  a  retort  was  used  for  filling  the  glasses.  My 
friends  were  on  the  verge  of  intoxication.  One  of  them 
offered  me  a  glass  bowl  containing  half-a-pint  of  the  fiery 
drink,  and  I  emptied  it  at  one  gulp.  All  the  members 
shouted  the  customary  "  Curse  it ! "  I  responded  by 
singing  the  song  of  the  ne'er-do-wells — 
Deep  potations 
And  flirtations 
Are  life's  only  end  and  aim   .    .    . 

After  this  prelude  an  infernal  row  arose,  and,  amid 
shouts  of  applause,   I   delivered    myself   of  a   stream   of 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  45 

vulgar  platitudes,  abusing  and  insulting  women  in  high- 
flown  verses,  mixed  with  anatomical  terms.  Intoxicated 
with  the  coarse  suggestions,  the  vulgar  profanation,  I 
surpassed  myself  in  heaping  insults  on  the  head  of  my 
Madonna.  It  was  the  morbid  result  of  my  unsatisfied 
longing.  My  hatred  for  the  treacherous  idol  broke  out 
with  such  virulence  that  it  afforded  me  a  sort  of  bitter 
comfort.  My  messmates,  poor  devils,  acquainted  with 
love  in  its  lowest  aspect  only,  listened  eagerly  to  my  vile 
denunciations  of  a  lady  of  rank,  who  was  utterly  beyond 
their  reach. 

The  drunkenness  increased.  The  sound  of  men's  voices 
delighted  my  ears  after  I  had  passed  three  months  amid 
sentimental  whining,  mock  modesty  and  hypocritical  inno- 
cence. I  felt  as  if  I  had  torn  off  the  mask,  thrown  back 
the  veil  under  which  Tartuffe  concealed  his  cupidity.  In 
imagination  I  saw  the  adored  woman  indulging  every 
whim  and  caprice,  merely  to  escape  the  boredom  of  a  dull 
existence.  All  my  insults,  my  infamous  invectives  and 
abuse  I  addressed  to  her,  furious  with  the  power  in  me 
wliich  successfully  strove  against  my  committing  a  crime. 

At  this  moment  the  laboratory  appeared  to  me  to  be 
a  hallucination  of  my  over-excited  brain,  the  temple  of 
monstrous  orgies  in  which  all  the  senses  participated. 
The  bottles  on  the  shelves  gleamed  in  all  the  colours  of 
the  rainbow:  the  deep  purple  of  red  lead;  the  orange 
of  potash,  the  yellow  of  sulphur,  the  green  of  verdigris, 
the  blue  of  vitriol.  The  atmosphere  was  thick  with 
tobacco  smoke ;  the  smell  of  the  lemons,  used  in  brewing 
the  punch,  called  up  visions  of  happier  countries.  The 
piano,  intentionally  out  of  tune  and  badly  treated,  groaned 
Beethoven's  march  in  a  manner  which  made  it  unrecognis- 
able. The  pallid  faces  of  the  revellers  see-sawed  in  the 
blue-black  smoke  which  rose  from  the  pipes.  The  lieu- 
tenant's sash,  the  black  beard  of  the  doctor  of  philosophy. 


46  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

the  physician's  embroidered  shirt  front,  the  skull  with  its 
empty  sockets;  the  noise,  the  disorder,  the  abominable 
discords,  the  lewd  images  evoked,  bewildered  and  confused 
my  maddened  brain,  when  suddenly,  with  one  accord, 
there  arose  a  cry  uttered  by  many  voices — 

"  To  the  women,  you  men !  " 

The  whole  assembly  broke  into  the  song — 

Deep  potations 
And  flirtations 
Are  life's  only  end  and  aim   .    .    . 

Hats  and  overcoats  were  donned,  and  the  whole  horde 
trooped  out.  Half-an-hour  later  we  had  arrived  at  our 
destination.  The  fires  in  the  huge  stoves  spluttered  and 
crackled,  stout  was  ordered,  and  the  saturnalias,  which 
rendered  the  remainder  of  the  night  hideous,  began. 


Whkn  I  awoke  on  the  following  morning  in  my  own  bed 
in  broad  daylight,  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  I  had 
regained  complete  mastery  over  myself.  Every  trace  of 
unhealthy  sentimentality  had  disappeared;  the  cult  of  the 
Madonna  had  been  forgotten  in  the  excesses  of  the  night. 
I  looked  upon  my  fantastic  love  as  a  weakness  of  the  spirit 
or  the  flesh,  which  at  the  moment  appeared  to  me  to  be 
one  and  the  same  thing. 

After  I  had  had  a  cold  bath  and  eaten  some  breakfast, 
I  returned  to  my  daily  duties,  content  that  the  whole  mat- 
ter was  at  an  end.  I  plunged  into  my  work,  and  the 
hours  passed  rapidly. 

It  was  half-past  twelve  when  the  porter  announced  the 
Baron. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  I  said  to  myself,  "  and  I  had  been 
under  the  impression  that  the  incident  was  closed !  " 

I  prepared  myself  for  a  scene. 

The  Baron,  radiant  with  mirth  and  happiness,  squeezed 
my  hand  affectionately.  He  had  come  to  ask  me  to  join 
in  another  excursion  by  steamer,  and  see  the  amateur 
theatricals  at  Sodertelje,  a  small  watering-place. 

I  declined  politely,  pleading  urgent  business. 

"  My  wife,"  he  recommenced,  "  would  be  very  pleased 
if  you  could  manage  to  come.  .  .  .  Moreover,  Baby  will 
be  one  of  the  party.  ..."  Baby,  the  much-discussed 
cousin.   .    .    . 

He  went  on  urging  me  in  a  manner  at  once  irresistible 
and  pathetic,  looking  at  me  with  eyes  so  full  of  melancholy 

47 


48  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

that  I  felt  myself  weakening.  But  instead  of  frankly 
accepting  his  invitation,  I  replied  with  a  question — 

"The  Baroness  is  quite  well?" 

"  She  wasn't  very  well  yesterday ;  in  fact,  she  was  really 
ill,  but  she  is  better  since  this  morning.  My  dear  fellow," 
he  added  after  a  slight  pause,  "  what  passed  between  you 
the  night  before  last  at  Nacka?  My  wife  says  that  you 
had  a  misunderstanding,  and  that  you  are  angry  with  her 
without  any  reason." 

"  Really,"  I  answered,  a  little  taken  aback,  "  I  don't 
know  myself.  Perhaps  I  had  a  little  too  much  to  drink. 
I  forgot  myself." 

"  Let's  forget  all  about  it  then,  will  you?  "  he  replied 
briskly,  "  and  let  us  be  friends  as  before.  Women  are 
often  strangely  touchy,  as  you  know.  It's  all  right,  then; 
you'll  come,  won't  you?  To-day  at  four.  Remember, 
we  are  counting  on  you.    ..." 

I  had  consented !   .    .    . 

Unfathomable  enigma !  A  misunderstanding !  .  .  .  But 
she  had  been  ill!  ...  Ill  with  fear  .  .  .  with  anger  .  .  . 
with   .    .    . 

The  fact  that  the  little  unknown  cousin  was  about  to 
appear  upon  the  scene  added  a  new  interest,  and  with  a 
beating  heart  I  went  on  board  the  steamer  at  four  o'clock, 
as  had  beeil  arranged. 

The  Baroness  greeted  me  with  sisterly  kindness. 

"  You're  not  angry  with  me  because  of  my  unkind 
words  ?  "  she  began.     "  I'm  very  excitable.    ..." 

"  Don't  let  us  speak  about  it,"  I  replied,  trying  to  find 
her  a  seat  behind  the  bridge. 

"  Mr.  Axel   .    .    .    Miss  Baby !    .    .    . " 

The  Baron  was  introducing  us.  I  was  looking  at  a  girl 
of  about  eighteen,  of  the  soubrette  type,  exactly  what  I 
had  imagined.  She  was  small,  very  ordinary-looking, 
dressed  simply,  but  with  a  certain  striving  after  elegance. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  49 

But  the  Baroness !  Pale  as  death,  with  hollow  cheeks, 
she  looked  more  fragile  than  ever.  Her  bangles  jingled 
at  her  wrists ;  her  slender  neck  rose  from  her  collar,  plainly 
showing  the  blue  arteries  winding  towards  the  ears  which, 
owing  to  the  careless  way  in  which  she  had  arranged  her 
hair,  stood  out  from  her  head  more  than  usual.  She  was 
badly  dressed,  too.  The  colours  of  her  frock  were  crude, 
and  did  not  blend.  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  she 
was  downright  plain,  and,  as  I  looked  at  her,  my  heart  was 
filled  with  compassion,  and  I  cursed  my  recent  conduct 
towards  her.  This  woman  a  coquette.''  She  was  a  saint, 
a  martyr,  bearing  undeserved  sorrow. 

The  steamer  started.  The  lovely  August  evening  on 
the  Lake  of  Malar  tempted  one  to  peaceful  dreams. 

Was  it  accidental  or  intended.''  The  little  cousin  and 
the  Baron  were  sitting  side  by  side  at  a  distance  sufficiently 
great  to  prevent  our  overhearing  each  other.  Leaning 
towards  her,  he  talked  and  laughed  incessantly,  with  the 
gay,  rejuvenated  face  of  an  accepted  lover. 

From  time  to  time  he  looked  at  us,  slyly,  and  we  nodded 
and  smiled  back. 

"A  jolly  girl,  the  little  one,  isn't  she?"  remarked  the 
Baroness. 

"  It  seems  so,"  I  answered,  uncertain  how  to  take  her 
remark. 

"  She  knows  how  to  cheer  up  my  melancholy  husband. 
I  don't  possess  that  gift,"  she  added,  with  a  frank  and 
kindly  smile  at  the  group. 

And  as  she  spoke  the  lines  of  her  face  betrayed  sup- 
pressed sorrow,  tears  held  back,  superhuman  resignation; 
across  her  features  glided,  cloud-like,  those  incomprehen- 
sible reflections  of  kindness,  resignation  and  self-denial, 
common  to  pregnant  women  and  young  mothers. 

Ashamed  of  my  misinterpretation  of  her  character,  tor- 


60  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

tured  by  remorse,  nervous,  I  suppressed  with  difficulty  the 
tears  which  I  felt  rising  to  my  eyes. 

"  But  aren't  you  jealous?  "  I  asked,  merely  for  the  sake 
of  saying  something. 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  answered,  quite  sincerely  and  without 
a  trace  of  malice.  "  Perhaps  you'll  think  it  strange,  but 
it's  true.  I  love  my  husband;  he  is  very  kind-hearted; 
and  I  appreciate  the  little  one,  for  she's  a  nice  girl.  And 
there  is  really  nothing  wrong  between  them.  Shame  on 
jealousy,  which  makes  a  woman  look  plain;  at  my  age  one 
has  to  be  careful." 

And,  indeed,  she  looked  so  plain  at  that  moment  that  it 
wrung  my  heart.  Acting  thoughtlessly,  on  impulse,  I 
advised  her,  with  fatherly  solicitude,  to  put  a  shawl  round 
her  shoulders,  pretending  that  I  was  afraid  of  her  catching 
cold.  She  let  me  arrange  the  fleecy  fabric  round  her  face, 
framing  it,  and  transforming  her  into  a  dainty  beauty. 

How  pretty  she  was  when  she  thanked  me  smilingly ! 
A  look  of  perfect  happiness  had  come  into  her  face;  she 
was  grateful  like  a  child  begging  for  caresses. 

"  My  poor  husband !  How  glad  I  am  to  see  him  a  little 
more  cheerful!  He  is  full  of  trouble!  ...  If  you  only 
knew !  " 

"  If  I'm  not  indiscreet,"  I  ventured,  "  then,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  tell  me  what  it  is  that  makes  you  so  un- 
happy. I  feel  that  there  is  a  great  sorrow  in  your  life. 
I  have  nothing  to  offer  you  but  advice;  but,  if  I  can  in 
any  way  serve  you,  I  entreat  you  to  make  use  of  my 
friendship." 

My  poor  friends  were  in  financial  difficulties:  the 
phantom  of  ruin — that  ghastly  nightmare! — was  threaten- 
ing them.  Up  to  now  the  Baron's  inadequate  income  had 
been  supplemented  by  his  wife's  dowry.  But  they  had 
recently  discovered  that  the  dowry  existed  on  paper  only, 
it  being  invested  in  worthless  shares.     The  Baron  was  on 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  51 

the  point  of  sending  in  his  papers,  and  looking  out  for  a 
cashier's  billet  in  a  bank, 

"  That's  the  reason,"  she  concluded,  "  why  I  want  to 
make  use  of  the  talent  I  possess,  for  then  I  could  con- 
tribute my  share  to  the  necessary  expenses  of  the  house-* 
hold.  It's  all  my  fault,  don't  you  see?  I'm  to  blame  for 
the  difficulties  in  which  he  finds  himself;  I've  ruined  his 
career.    ..." 

What  could  I  say  or  do  in  such  a  sad  case  which  went 
far  beyond  my  power  of  assistance.^  I  attempted  to 
smooth  away  her  difficulties,  to  deceive  myself  about  them. 

I  assured  her  that  things  would  come  all  right,  and,  in 
order  to  allay  her  fears,  I  painted  for  her  the  picture  of 
a  future  without  cares,  full  of  bright  prospects.  I  quoted 
the  statistics  of  national  economy  to  prove  that  better 
times  were  coming  in  which  her  shares  would  improve; 
I  invented  the  most  extraordinary  remedies;  I  conjured 
up  a  new  army  organization  which  would  bring  in  its  train 
unexpected  promotion  for  her  husband. 

It  was  all  pure  invention,  but,  thanks  to  my  power  of 
imagination,  courage  and  hope  returned  to  her,  and  her 
spirits  rose. 

After  landing,  and  while  we  were  waiting  for  the  com- 
mencement of  the  play,  we  went  for  a  walk  in  the  Park. 
I  had  not,  as  yet,  exchanged  one  word  with  the  cousin. 
The  Baron  never  left  her  side.  He  carried  her  cloak, 
devoured  her  with  his  eyes,  bathed  her  in  a  flood  of  words, 
warmed  her  with  his  breath,  while  she  remained  callous  and 
self-possessed,  with  vacant  eyes  and  hard  features.  From 
time  to  time,  without  apparently  moving  a  muscle  of  her 
face,  she  seemed  to  say  things  to  which  the  Baron  replied 
with  shrieks  of  laughter,  and,  judging  from  his  animated 
face,  she  must  have  been  indulging  pretty  freely  in  rep- 
artee, innuendoes  and  double-entendres. 


52  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

At  last  the  doors  opened,  and  we  went  in  to  take  our 
seats,  which  had  not  been  reserved. 

The  curtain  rose.  The  Baroness  was  blissfully  happy 
to  see  the  stage,  smell  the  mingled  odours  of  painted 
canvas,  raw  wood,  rouge  and  perspiration. 

They  played  A  Whim.  A  sudden  indisposition  seized 
me,  the  result  of  the  distressing  memories  of  my  vain 
efforts  to  conquer  the  stage,  and  also,  perhaps,  the  conse- 
quence of  the  excesses  of  the  previous  night.  When  the 
curtain  fell,  I  left  my  seat  and  made  my  way  to  the 
restaurant,  where  I  refreshed  myself  with  a  double- 
absinthe,  and  remained  until  the  performance  was  over. 

My  friends  met  me  after  the  play,  and  we  went  to  have 
supper  together.  They  seemed  tired,  and  unable  to  hide 
their  annoyance  at  my  flight.  Nobody  spoke  a  word  while 
the  table  was  being  laid.  A  desultory  conversation  was 
started  with  the  greatest  difficulty.  The  cousin  remained 
mute,  haughty,  reserved. 

We  discussed  the  menu.  After  consulting  with  me,  the 
Baroness  ordered  hors  d'ceuvres.  Roughly — too  roughly 
for  my  unstrung  nerves,  the  Baron  countermanded  the 
order.  Lost  in  gloomy  thoughts,  I  pretended  not  to  hear 
him,  and  called  out  "  Hors  d'ceuvres  for  two !  "  for  her 
and  for  me,  as  she  had  originally  ordered. 

The  Baron  grew  pale  with  anger.  There  was  thunder 
in  the  air,  but  not  another  word  was  spoken. 

I  inwardly  admired  my  courage  in  thus  answering  a 
rudeness  with  an  insult,  bound  to  have  serious  consequences 
in  any  civilised  country.  The  Baroness,  encouraged  by 
the  way  in  which  I  had  stood  up  for  her,  began  teasing 
me  in  order  to  make  me  laugh.  But  in  vain.  Conversa- 
tion was  impossible;  nobody  had  anything  to  say,  and  the 
Baron  and  I  exchanged  angry  glances.  In  the  end  my 
opponent  whispered  a  remark  in  his  neighbour's  ear;  in 
reply   she   made   a   grimace^   nodded^   pronounced   a    few 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  53 

syllables  without  moving  her  lips,  and  regarded  me  scorn- 
fully. 

I  felt  the  blood  rising  to  my  head,  and  the  storm  would 
have  burst  there  and  then  if  an  unexpected  incident  had 
not  served  as  a  lightning  conductor. 

In  an  adjacent  room  a  boisterous  party  had  been  strum- 
ming the  piano  for  the  last  half-hour;  now  they  began 
singing  a  vulgar  song,  with  the  doors  standing  wide  open. 

The  Baron  turned  to  the  waiter:  "  Shut  that  door," 
he  said  curtly. 

The  door  had  hardly  been  closed  when  it  was  again  burst 
open.  The  singers  repeated  the  chorus,  and  challenged 
us  with  impertinent  remarks. 

The  moment  for  an  explosion  had  arrived. 

I  jumped  up  from  my  chair;  with  two  strides  I  was  at 
the  door  and  banged  it  in  the  faces  of  the  noisy  crew. 
Fire  in  a  powder-barrel  could  not  have  had  a  more  rousing 
effect  than  my  determined  stand  against  the  enemy. 

A  short  struggle  ensued,  during  which  I  kept  hold  of 
the  door-handle.  But  the  door  yielded  to  the  vigorous 
pull  from  the  other  side,  and  I  was  dragged  towards  the 
howling  mob,  who  threw  themselves  upon  me,  eager  for  a 
hand-to-hand  tussle. 

At  that  moment  I  felt  a  touch  on  my  shoulder,  and 
heard  an  indignant  voice  asking  "  these  gentlemen  whether 
they  had  no  sense  of  honour,  that  they  attacked  in  a  body 
one  single  opponent.''"  .    .    . 

It  was  the  Baroness  who,  under  the  stress  of  a  strong 
emotion,  forgetting  the  dictates  of  convention  and  good 
manners,  betrayed  warmer  feelings  than  she  probably  was 
aware  of. 

The  fight  was  over.  The  Baroness  regarded  me  with 
searching  eyes. 

"  You're  a  brave  little  hero,"  she  said.  "  I  was  trembling 
for  you." 


64  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

The  Baron  called  for  the  bill,  asked  to  see  the  landlord 
and  requested  him  to  send  for  the  police. 

After  this  incident  perfect  harmony  reigned  amongst 
us.  We  vied  in  expressions  of  indignation  about  the  rude- 
ness of  the  natives.  All  the  suppressed  wrath  of  jealousy 
and  wounded  vanity  was  poured  on  the  heads  of  those 
uncouth  louts. 

And  later  on,  as  we  sat  drinking  punch  in  one  of  our 
own  rooms,  our  old  friendship  burst  into  fresh  flames; 
we  forgot  all  about  the  police,  who,  moreover,  had  failed 
to  put  in  an  appearance. 

On  the  following  morning  we  met  in  the  coffee-room, 
full  of  high  spirits,  and  in  our  inmost  hearts  glad  to  have 
done  with  a  disagreeable  business,  the  consequences  of 
which  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  foretell. 

After  the  first  breakfast  we  went  for  a  walk  on  the  banks 
of  the  canal,  in  couples,  and  with  a  fair  distance  between 
us.  When  we  had  arrived  at  a  lock  where  the  canal  made 
a  strong  curve,  the  Baron  waited  and  turned  to  his  wife 
with  an  affectionate,  almost  amorous  smile. 

"  D'you  remember  this  place,  Marie.''  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  remember,"  she  answered,  with 
a  mingled  expression  of  passion  and  sadness. 

Later  on  she  explained  his  question  to  me. 

"  It  was  here  where  he  first  told  me  of  his  love  .  .  . 
one  evening,  under  this  very  birch-tree,  while  a  brilliant 
shooting-star  flashed  across  the  sky." 

"  That  was  three  years  ago,"  I  completed  her  explana- 
tion, "  and  you  are  reviving  old  memories  already.  You 
live  in  the  past  because  the  present  doesn't  satisfy  you." 

"  Oh,  stop !  "  she  exclaimed ;  "  you've  taken  leave  of 
your  senses.  ...  I  loathe  the  past,  and  I  am  grateful  to 
my  husband  for  having  delivered  me  from  a  vain  mother 
whose  doting  tyranny  was  ruining  me.  No,  I  adore  my 
husband,  he's  a  loyal  friend  to  me.    .    ." 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  55 

"As  you  like.  Baroness;  I'll  agree  with  anything,  to 
please  you." 

At  the  stated  hour  we  went  on  board  to  return  to  town, 
and  after  a  delightful  passage  across  the  blue  sea,  with  its 
thousands  of  green  islands,  we  arrived  in  Stockholm, 
where  we  parted. 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  return  to  work,  determined 
to  tear  this  love  out  of  my  heart,  but  I  soon  found  that 
I  had  reckoned  without  forces  much  stronger  than  myself. 
On  the  day  after  our  excursion  I  received  an  invitation  to 
dinner  from  the  Baroness;  it  was  the  anniversary  of  her 
wedding-day.  I  could  not  think  of  a  plausible  excuse, 
and,  although  I  was  afraid  of  straining  our  friendship,  I 
accepted  the  invitation.  To  my  great  disappointment,  I 
found  the  house  turned  upside  down,  undergoing  the 
process  of  a  general  cleaning;  the  Baron  was  in  a  bad 
temper,  and  the  Baroness  sent  her  apologies  for  the  de- 
layed dinner.  I  walked  up  and  down  the  garden  with  her 
irritable,  hungry  husband,  who  seemed  unable  to  control 
his  impatience.  After  half-an-hour's  strenuous  effort  my 
powers  of  entertaining  him  were  exhausted,  and  conversa- 
tion ceased.     He  took  me  into  the  dining-room. 

Dinner  was  laid,  and  the  appetisers  ^  had  been  put  on 
the  table,  but  the  mistress  of  the  house  was'  still  invisible. 

"  If  we  took  a  snack  standing,"  said  the  Baron,  "  we 
should  be  able  to  wait." 

Afraid  of  offending  the  Baroness,  I  did  my  utmost  to 
dissuade  him,  but  he  remained  obstinate,  and  being,  as  it 
were,  between  two  fires,  I  was  compelled  to  acquiesce  in 
his  proposal. 

At  last  the  Baroness  entered:  radiant,  young,  pretty; 

1  Note  of  the  translator :  It  is  customary  in  Sweden  to  begin 
dinner  with  savoury  sandwiches,  which  are  usually  placed  on  a  side- 
table.  These  sandwiches  are  intended  to  excite  the  appetite  of  the 
diners,  and   are  called  "appetisers." 


66  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

she  was  dressed  in  a  diaphanous  silk  frock,  yellow,  like 
ripe  corn,  with  a  mauve  stripe,  reminiscent  of  pansies ;  this 
was  her  favourite  combination  of  colours.  The  well-cut 
dress  suited  her  girlish  figure  to  perfection,  and  emphasised 
the  beautiful  contour  of  the  shoulders  and  the  curve  of  the 
exquisitely  modelled  arms. 

I  handed  her  my  bunch  of  roses,  wishing  her  many  happy 
returns  of  the  day;  I  also  took  good  care  to  put  all  the 
blame  for  our  rude  impatience  on  the  Baron. 

When  her  eyes  fell  on  the  disordered  table,  she  pursed 
up  her  lips  and  addressed  a  remark  to  her  husband  which 
was  more  stinging  than  humorous ;  he  was  not  slow  to  reply 
to  the  imdeserved  rebuke.  I  threw  myself  into  the  breach 
by  recalling  the  incidents  of  the  previous  day  which  I  had 
already  discussed  with  the  Baron. 

"  And  what  d'you  think  of  my  charming  cousin.''  "  asked 
the  Baroness. 

"  She's  very  amiable,"  I  replied. 

"  Don't  you  agree  with  me,  my  dear  fellow,  that  the 
child  is  a  perfect  treasure?  "  exclaimed  the  Baron,  in  a 
voice  which  expressed  parental  solicitude,  sincere  devotion 
and  pity  for  this  imp  of  Satan,  supposed  to  be  martyred 
by  imaginary  tyrants. 

But  in  spite  of  the  stress  laid  by  her  husband  on  the 
word  "  child,"  the  Baroness  continued  mercilessly — 

"  Just  look  how  that  dear  Baby  has  changed  the  style 
in  which  my  husband  does  his  hair !  " 

The  parting  which  the  Baron  had  been  accustomed  to 
wear  had  indeed  disappeared.  Instead  of  it,  his  hair  was 
dressed  in  the  manner  of  the  young  students,  his  mous- 
tache waxed — a  style  which  did  not  suit  him.  Through 
an  association  of  ideas,  my  attention  was  drawn  to  the  fact 
— which,  however,  I  kept  to  myself — that  the  Baroness, 
too,  had  adopted  from  the  charming  cousin  certain  details 
of  dressing  her  hair,  of  wearing  her  clothes,  of  manner 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  57 

even.  It  made  me  think  of  the  elective  affinities  of  the 
chemists,  in  this  case  acting  on  living  beings. 

The  dinner  dragged  on,  slowly  and  heavily,  like  a  cart 
which  has  lost  its  fourth  wheel,  and  wearily  lumbers  along 
on  the  three  remaining  ones.  But  the  cousin,  henceforth 
the  indispensable  complement  of  our  quartet,  which,  with- 
out her,  was  beginning  to  be  out  of  harmony,  was  expected 
to  come  later  on  and  take  coffee  with  us. 

At  dessert  I  proposed  a  toast  to  the  married  couple,  in 
conventional  terms,  without  spirit  or  wit,  like  champagne 
which  has  grown  flat. 

Husband  and  wife,  animated  by  the  memories  of  the 
past,  kissed  tenderly,  and,  in  mimicking  their  former  fond 
ways,  became  affectionate,  amorous  even,  just  as  an  actor 
will  feel  genuinely  depressed  when  he  has  been  feigning 
tears. 

Or  was  it  that  the  fire  was  still  smovddering  vmderneath 
the  ashes,  ready  to  burst  into  fresh  flames  if  fanned  by  a 
skilful  hand?  It  was  impossible  to  guess  how  matters 
stood. 

After  dinner  we  went  into  the  garden  and  sat  in  the 
summer-house,  the  window  of  which  looked  on  to  the  street. 
Digestive  processes  did  not  favour  conversation.  The 
Baron  stood  at  the  window,  absent-mindedly  watching  the 
street,  in  the  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  cousin. 
Suddenly  he  darted  off  like  an  arrow,  evidently  with  the 
intention  of  going  to  meet  the  expected  guest. 

Left  alone  with  the  Baroness,  I  at  once  became  embar- 
rassed; I  was  not  naturally  self-conscious,  but  she  had  a 
queer  way  of  looking  at  me  and  paying  me  compliments  on 
certain  details  of  my  appearance.  After  a  long,  almost 
painful  silence,  she  burst  out  laughing,  and  pointing  in 
the  direction  in  which  the  Baron  had  disappeared,  she 
exclaimed — 

"  Dear  old  Gustav,  he  is  head-over-ears  in  love !  " 


68  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  It  looks  like  it/'  I  replied.  "  And  you  are  really  not 
jealous?  " 

"  Not  at  all/'  she  assured  me.  "  I'm  in  love  myself 
with  the  pretty  little  cat.     And  you?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right.  I  don't  want  to  be  rude,  but  I 
shall  never  feel  in  the  least  in  sympathy  with  your  cousin." 

And  this  was  true.  From  the  first  moment  I  had  taken 
a  dislike  to  this  young  woman,  who,  like  myself,  was  of 
middle-class  origin.  She  saw  in  me  the  odious  witness,  or 
rather  the  dangerous  rival,  hunting  in  the  preserves  which 
she  had  reserved  for  herself,  and  from  which  she  hoped 
to  force  her  way  into  society.  Her  keen  grey  eyes  had  at 
once  recognised  in  me  an  acquaintance  of  whom  she  could 
make  no  use;  her  plebeian  instinct  scented  an  adventurer 
in  me.  And  up  to  a  certain  point  she  was  right,  for  I  had 
entered  the  Baron's  house  in  the  hope  of  finding  a  patron 
for  my  unfortunate  drama;  unluckily,  the  relations  be- 
tween my  friends  and  the  stage  were  non-existent,  a  mere 
fabrication  of  my  friend  from  Finland,  and,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  compliments,  my  play  had  never  been  men- 
tioned. 

It  was  also  undeniable  that  there  was  a  marked  diflfer- 
enee  in  the  Baron's  manner  whenever  his  charmer  was 
present.  He  was  fickle  and  easily  impressed,  and  evidently 
beginning  to  regard  me  with  the  eyes  of  the  sorceress. 

We  had  not  long  to  wait;  the  pair  appeared  at  the 
garden  gate,  merrily  talking  and  laughing. 

The  girl  was  brimming  over  with  fun  and  merriment; 
she  used  bad  language,  a  little  too  freely  perhaps,  but 
with  excellent  taste ;  she  uttered  double-entendres  with  such 
an  appearance  of  perfect  innocence  that  it  was  impossible 
to  credit  her  with  the  knowledge  of  the  meaning  of  her 
ambiguous  words.  She  smoked  and  drank  without  forget- 
ting for  one  single  moment  that  she  was  a  woman,  and, 
what  is  more,  a  young  woman.     There  was  nothing  mas- 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  69 

culine  about  her,  nothing  emancipated,  nor  was  she  in  the 
least  prudish.  She  was  certainly  amusing,  and  time  passed 
quickly. 

But  what  surprised  me  most  and  ought  to  have  been  a 
warning  to  me,  was  the  excessive  mirth  with  which  the 
Baroness  greeted  any  doubtful  remark  which  fell  from  the 
girl's  lips.  Then  a  wild  laugh,  a  cynical  expression  would 
flit  over  her  countenance,  giving  evidence  that  she  was 
deeply  versed  in  the  secrets  of  excess.  , 

While  we  were  thus  amusing  ourselves,  the  Baron's  uncle 
joined  our  little  party.  A  retired  captain,  a  widower  of 
many  years'  standing,  very  chivalrous,  of  pleasing  manners, 
a  little  daring  in  his  old-fashioned  courteousness,  he  was, 
thanks  to  his  connection  with  the  family,  the  declared 
favourite  of  these  ladies,  whose  affections  he  had  succeeded 
in  winning. 

He  looked  upon  it  as  his  right  to  fondle  them,  kiss  their 
hands,  pat  their  cheeks.  As  he  came  in,  both  of  them 
fell  on  his  neck  with  little  exclamations  of  pleasure. 

"  Take  care,  my  little  ones !  Two  at  a  time  is  too  much 
for  an  old  fellow  like  me.  Take  care !  You  are  burning 
yourselves.  Quick,  down  with  your  hands,  or  I  won't  be 
responsible  for  anything." 

The  Baroness  held  her  cigarette,  poised  between  her  lips, 
towards  him. 

"  A  little  fire,  please,  uncle !  " 

"Fire!  Fire!  I'm  sorry  I  can't  oblige  you,  my  child, 
my  fire  has  gone  out,"  he  answered  slyly. 

"  Has  it?  " 

She  boxed  his  ears  with  her  finger-tips.  The  old  man 
seized  her  arm,  held  it  between  his  hands  and  felt  it  up  to 
her  shoulder. 

"  You're  not  as  thin  as  you  look,  my  darling,"  he  said, 
stroking  her  soft  flesh  through  her  sleeve. 

The  Baroness  did  not  object.     The  compliment  seemed 


60  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

to  please  her.  Playfully,  smilingly,  she  pushed  up  her 
sleeve,  exposing  a  beautifully-modelled  arm,  daintily 
rounded  and  white  as  milk.  Almost  immediately,  how- 
ever, remembering  my  presence,  she  hastily  pulled  it 
down  again;  but  I  had  seen  a  spark  of  the  consuming  fire 
which  burned  in  her  eyes,  an  expression  which  comes  into 
the  face  of  a  woman  in  the  transports  of  love. 

The  burning  match  which  I  held  between  my  fingers, 
with  the  intention  of  lighting  a  cigarette,  accidentally 
dropped  between  my  coat  and  waistcoat. 

With  a  terrified  scream,  the  Baroness  rushed  at  me  and 
tried  to  extinguish  the  flame  between  her  fingers. 

"  Fire !  Fire !  "  she  shrieked,  her  cheeks  scarlet  with 
excitement. 

Losing  my  self-control,  I  started  back  and  pressed  her 
hand  against  my  breast,  as  if  to  smother  the  smouldering 
fire;  then,  shamefacedly  releasing  myself  and  pretend- 
ing that  I  had  escaped  a  very  real  danger,  I  thanked  the 
Baroness,  who  was  still  unable  to  control  her  agitation. 

We  talked  till  supper-time.  The  sun  had  set,  and  the 
moon  rose  behind  the  cupola  of  the  Observatory,  illumin- 
ating the  apple  trees  in  the  orchard.  We  amused  our- 
selves by  trying  to  differentiate  between  the  apples  sus- 
pended from  the  branches  and  half -hidden  by  the  leaves, 
^hich  looked  sedge-green  in  the  pale  moonlight.  The 
ordinary  blood-red  Calville  seemed  but  a  yellow  spot;  the 
greyish  Astrachan  apple  had  turned  green,  the  Rennet  a 
dark,  brownish  red,  and  the  others  had  changed  colour 
in  proportion.  The  same  thing  had  happened  with  the 
flowers. 

The  dahlias  presented  to  our  eyes  unknown  tints,  the 
stocks  shone  in  the  colours  of  another  planet,  the  hues  of 
the  Chinese  asters  were  indefinable. 

"  There,  you  see.  Baroness,"  I  said,  commenting  on  the 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  61 

phenomenon,  "  how  everything  in  the  world  is  imaginary. 
Colour  does  not  exist  in  the  abstract;  everything  depends 
on  the  nature  of  the  light.     Everything  is  illusion." 

"  Everything.''  "  she  said  softly,  remaining  standing 
before  me  and  gazing  at  me  with  eyes  magnified  by  the 
darkness. 

"  Everything,  Baroness !  "  I  lied,  confused  by  this  living 
apparition  of  flesh  and  blood,  which  at  the  moment  terri- 
fied me  by  its  unearthly  loveliness. 

The  dishevelled  golden  hair  formed  a  luminous  aureole 
round  her  pale,  moonlit  face;  her  exquisitely  proportion- 
ate figure  rose  by  my  side,  tall  and  straight  and  more 
slender  than  ever  in  the  striped  dress,  the  colours  of  which 
had  changed  to  black  and  white. 

The  stocks  breathed  their  voluptuous  perfumes,  the 
crickets  chirped  in  the  grass,  wet  with  the  falling  dew, 
a  gentle  breeze  rustled  in  the  trees,  twilight  wrapped  us 
round  with  its  soft  mantle;  everything  invited  to  love; 
nothing  but  the  cowardice  of  respectability  kept  back  the 
avowal  which  trembled  on  my  lips. 

Suddenly  an  apple  dropped  from  a  wind-shaken  bough 
and  fell  at  our  feet.  The  Baroness  stooped,  picked  it  up 
and  gave  it  to  me,  with  a  significant  gesture. 

"  Forbidden  fruit !  "  I  murmured.  "  No,  thank  you." 
And  to  efface  the  impression  of  this  bliuider,  which  I  had 
committed  against  my  will,  I  hastened  to  improvise  a 
satisfactory  explanation  of  my  words,  hinting  at  the  par- 
simony of  the  owner.  "  What  would  the  owner  say  if 
he  saw  me.''  " 

"  That  you  are  at  least  a  knight  without  reproach," 
she  replied  disapprovingly,  glancing  at  the  shrubbery  which 
effectively  screened  the  Baron  and  her  cousin  from  indis- 
creet observers. 

When   we  rose   from  the   supper-table  the   Baron  pro- 


62  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

posed  that  we  should  accompany  "  the  dear  child  "  home. 
At  the  front  door  he  offered  her  his  arm,  and  then  turned 
to  me. 

"  Look  after  my  wife,  old  man,"  he  said,  "  and  prove 
to  her  that  you  really  are  the  perfect  cavalier  I  know  you 
to  be."    His  voice  was  full  of  tender  solicitude. 

I  felt  ill  at  ease.  As  the  evening  was  warm  the  Baroness, 
leaning  lightly  on  me,  was  carrying  her  scarf  in  her  hand, 
and  from  her  arm,  the  graceful  outline  of  which  was  plainly 
perceptible  through  the  thin  silk,  emanated  a  magnetic 
current  which  excited  in  me  an  extraordinary  sensitive- 
ness. I  imagined  that  I  could  detect,  at  the  height  of  my 
deltoid  muscle,  the  exact  spot  where  the  sleeve  of  her 
under-garment  ended.  My  sensitiveness  was  intensified  to 
such  a  degree  that  I  could  have  traced  the  whole  anatomy 
of  that  adorable  arm.  Her  biceps,  the  great  elevator  which 
plays  the  principal  part  when  two  people  embrace  each 
other,  pressed  mine,  flesh  against  flesh,  in  supple  rhythms. 
In  walking  along,  side  by  side,  I  could  distinguish  the 
curve  of  her  hips  through  the  skirts  which  brushed  against 
my  legs. 

"  You  walk  splendidly,  you  must  be  a  perfect  dancer," 
she  said,  as  if  to  encourage  me  to  break  an  embarrassing 
silence. 

And  after  a  few  moments,  during  which  she  must  have 
felt  the  quivering  of  my  overstrung  nerves,  she  asked,  a 
little  sarcastically,  with  the  superiority  of  a  woman  of  the 
world — 

"  Are  you  shivering?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  cold." 

"  Then  why  not  put  on  your  overcoat?  " 

Her  voice  was  soft  and  velvety,  like  a  caress. 

I  put  on  my  coat,  a  veritable  straight  jacket,  and  so 
was  better  protected  against  the  warmth  which  flowed 
from  her  body  into  mine. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  63 

The  sound  of  her  little  feet,  keeping  time  with  my  foot- 
steps, drew  our  nervous  systems  so  closely  together  that  I 
felt  almost  as  if  I  were  walking  on  four  feet,  like  a  quad- 
ruped. 

In  the  course  of  that  fateful  walk  a  pruning  occurred  of 
the  kind  which  gardeners  call  "  ablactation,"  and  which 
is  brought  about  by  bringing  two  boughs  into  the  closest 
proximity. 

From  that  day  I  no  longer  belonged  to  myself.  She 
had  inoculated  me  with  her  blood;  our  nerves  were  in  a 
state  of  high  tension;  the  unborn  lives  within  her  yearned 
for  the  quickening  fiat  which  would  call  them  into  exist- 
ence; her  soul  craved  for  union  with  my  spirit,  and  my 
spirit  longed  to  pour  itself  into  this  delicate  vessel.  Had 
all  this  happened  to  us  without  our  knowledge?  Impos- 
sible to  say. 

Once  more  back  in  my  room,  I  determinately  faced  the 
question  of  the  future.  Should  I  flee  from  danger  and 
forget,  should  I  try  to  make  my  fortune  abroad  ?  The  idea 
flashed  through  my  mind  to  go  to  Paris,  the  centre  of  civil- 
isation. Once  there,  I  would  bury  myself  in  the  libraries, 
be  lost  in  the  museums.  In  Paris  I  should  produce  a  great 
work. 

No  sooner  had  I  conceived  this  plan,  than  I  took  the 
necessary  steps  to  carry  it  out.  After  a  month  had  elapsed 
I  was  in  a  position  to  pay  my  farewell  visits. 

An  unexpected  incident  which  happened  very  oppor- 
tunely served  as  a  convenient  pretext  with  which  to  cloak 
my  flight.  Selma,  my  whilom  Finnish  friend,  was  having 
her  banns  published.  I  was,  therefore,  so  to  speak,  com- 
pelled to  seek  forgetfulness  and  healing  for  my  wounded 
h€art  in  distant  countries.  Anyhow,  it  was  as  good  an 
excuse  as  any  I  could  think  of. 

My  departure  was  delayed  for  a  few  weeks  in  deference 
to  the  entreaties  of  my  friends,  who  were  dreading  the 


64  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

equinoctial  gales ;  I  had  decided  to  go  by  steamer  to  Havre. 

Furthermore,  my  sister's  wedding  was  to  take  place  early 
in  October,  and  this  necessitated  a  further  postponement  of 
my  project. 

During  this  time  I  received  frequent  invitations  from 
the  Baroness.  The  cousin  had  returned  to  her  parents, 
and  the  three  of  us  generally  spent  the  evenings  together. 
The  Baron,  unconsciously  influenced  by  the  strong  will  of 
his  wife,  seemed  more  favourably  disposed  towards  me; 
moreover,  my  impending  departure  had  reassured  him 
completely,  and  he  treated  me  with  his  former  friendliness. 

One  evening  the  Baroness's  mother  was  entertaining  a 
small  circle  of  intimate  friends,  when  the  Baroness, 
stretched  out  listlessly  on  the  sofa,  suddenly  put  her  head 
on  her  mother's  lap  and  loudly  confessed  her  intense  ad- 
miration for  a  well-known  actor.  Did  she  want  to  torture 
me,  to  see  the  effect  which  such  a  confession  would  have 
on  me.''  I  don't  know.  But  the  old  lady,  tenderly  strok- 
ing her  daughter's  hair,  looked  at  me. 

"  If  ever  you  write  a  novel,"  she  said,  "  let  me  draw 
your  attention  to  this  particular  type  of  passionate  woman- 
hood. It's  an  extraordinary  type !  She's  never  happy 
unless  she  is  in  love  with  some  one  else  beside  her  husband." 

"  It's  quite  true  what  mamma  says,"  agreed  the  Baroness, 
"and  just  at  present  I'm  in  love  with  that  man!  He's 
irresistible !  " 

"  She's  mad,"  laughed  the  Baron,  wincing,  yet  anxiously 
trying  to  apj>ear  unconcerned. 

Passionate  womanhood !  The  words  sank  into  my  heart, 
for,  jesting  apart,  those  words  spoken  by  an  old  woman, 
and  that  old  woman  her  own  mother,  must  have  contained 
more  than  a  grain  of  truth. 


VI 

My  departure  was  imminent.  On  the  eve  of  my  leaving 
I  invited  the  Baron  and  his  wife  to  a  bachelor's  dinner  in 
my  attic.  To  hide  the  meanness  of  the  furniture,  my 
little  home  was  wearing  its  Sunday  clothes,  and  had  the 
appearance  of  a  sacred  temple.  My  damaged  wicker  sofa 
was  pushed  against  the  wall  between  the  two  window 
recesses,  one  of  which  was  filled  by  my  writing-table  and 
the  improvised  garden,  the  other  by  my  book-shelves;  an 
imitation  tiger-skin  was  thrown  over  it,  and  held  in  its 
place  by  invisible  tacks. 

The  left  was  taken  up  by  my  large  bed-sofa,  with  its 
gaudy  tick  cover.  Above  it,  on  the  side  wall,  hung  a 
vividly-coloured  map  of  the  world.  On  the  right-hand 
side  stood  my  chest  of  drawers  with  its  swing  glass,  both 
in  the  Empire  style  and  decorated  with  brass  ornaments; 
a  wardrobe  with  a  bust  of  plaster  of  Paris  and  a  wash- 
stand,  for  the  moment  banished  behind  the  window  cur- 
tains, completed  the  furniture.  The  walls,  with  their 
decorations  of  framed  sketches,  made  a  gay  and  varied 
show. 

A  china  chandelier,  of  the  shape  which  is  occasionally 
met  with  in  churches  and  which  I  had  discovered  at  an 
antiquary's,  was  suspended  from  the  ceiling.  The  cracks 
were  skilfully  concealed  by  a  wreath  of  artificial  ivy  which 
I  had  found  some  little  time  ago  at  my  sister's.  Beneath 
the  three-armed  chandelier  stood  the  dining-table.  A 
basket  filled  with  Bengal  roses,  which  glowed  red  among 
the  dark  foliage,  was  placed  on  the  white  damask  table- 
cloth,  and  the  roses,  reaching  up  to  and   mingling  with 

65 


66  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

the  drooping  ivy  shoots,  gave  the  whole  the  effect  of  a 
flower  show.  Round  the  basket  which  held  the  roses  stood 
an  array  of  wine  glasses,  red,  green  and  opal,  which  I 
had  bought  cheaply,  at  a  sale,  for  each  of  them  had  a 
flaw.  The  same  thing  applied  to  the  dinner  service :  plates, 
salt-cellars  and  sugar-bowl  of  Chinese,  Japanese  and 
Swedish  porcelain. 

I  had  but  a  dozen  cold  dishes  to  offer  to  my  friends, 
most  of  them  chosen  more  with  an  eye  to  their  decorative 
value  than  because  they  were  good  to  eat,  for  the  meal 
was  to  consist  principally  of  oysters.  My  landlady  had 
good-naturedly  lent  me  the  indispensable  articles  for  the 
banquet,  an  unprecedented  event  in  my  attic.  ...  At 
last  everything  was  satisfactorily  arranged,  and  I  could 
not  help  admiring  the  setting:  these  mingled  touches  be- 
trayed on  a  small  scale  the  inspiration  of  a  poet,  the 
research  of  a  scientist,  the  good  taste  of  an  artist.  The 
fondness  for  dainty  food,  the  love  of  flowers,  suggested 
the  love  of  women.  If  the  table  had  not  been  laid  for 
three,  one  might  have  guessed  at  an  intimate  feast  for 
two,  the  first  delights  of  a  love-adventure,  instead  of  a 
feast  of  reconciliation  which  it  actually  was.  My  room 
had  not  seen  a  female  visitor  since  that  horrible  woman 
whose  boots  had  left  ineradicable  traces  on  the  woodwork 
of  my  sofa.  The  looking-glass  on  the  chest  of  drawers 
had  reflected  no  female  figure  since  then.  And  now  a 
woman  of  blameless  life,  a  mother,  a  lady  of  education 
and  refinement,  was  coming  to  consecrate  this  place  which 
had  seen  so  much  work,  misery  and  pain.  And,  I  thought 
in  a  transport  of  poetic  inspiration,  it  is  indeed  a  sacred 
festival,  since  I  am  prepared  to  sacrifice  my  heart,  my 
peace,  j)erhaps  my  life,  to  ensure  the  happiness  of  mj 
friends. 

Everything  was  ready  when  I  heard  footsteps  on  the 
fourth   floor  landing.      I   hastily  lit  the  candles,   for   the 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  67 

last  time  straightened  the  basket  containing  the  roses,  and 
a  moment  later  my  guests,  exhausted  with  having  climbed 
four  flights  of  stairs,  stood  panting  before  my  door. 

I  opened.  The  Baroness,  dazzled  by  the  lights,  clapped 
her  hands  as  if  she  were  admiring  a  successful  stage  setting. 

"  Bravo !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  you  are  a  first-class  stage 
manager." 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  I  occasionally  amuse  myself  with 
play-acting,  for  the  sake  of  discipline  and  patience." 

I  took  off  her  cloak,  bade  her  be  welcome,  and  made  her 
sit  down  on  the  sofa.  But  she  could  not  keep  still.  With 
the  curiosity  of  a  woman  who  has  never  been  in  a  bachelor's 
chambers,  but  has  gone  straight  from  her  father's  house  to 
that  of  her  husband,  she  began  to  examine  the  room.  She 
seized  my  penholder,  handled  my  blotter,  searched  about 
as  if  she  were  determined  to  discover  a  secret.  Strolling 
to  my  book-shelves,  she  glanced  curiously  at  the  back  of  the 
volumes.  In  passing  the  looking-glass  she  stopped  for  a 
few  seconds  to  arrange  her  hair  and  push  the  end  of  a  piece 
of  lace  into  the  opening  of  her  blouse.  She  examined  the 
furniture,  piece  by  piece,  and  smelt  the  flowers,  all  the 
time  uttering  little  cries  of  delight. 

When  she  had  finished  her  voyage  of  discovery  round 
my  room,  she  asked  me,  naively,  without  any  arriere- 
pensee,  seeking  with  her  eyes  a  piece  of  furniture  which 
appeared  to  be  missing — 

"  But  where  do  you  sleep  ?  " 

"  On  the  sofa." 

"  Oh,  how  jolly  a  bachelor's  life  must  be!  " 

And  the  forgotten  dreams  of  her  girlhood  awoke  in 
her  brain. 

"  It's  often  very  dull,"  I  replied. 

"  Dull  to  be  one's  own  master,  have  one's  own  home, 


68  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

be  free  from  all  supervision!  Oh,  what  would  I  not  give 
to  be  independent!  Matrimony  is  abominable!  Isn't  it 
so,  darling?  "  She  turned  towards  the  Baron,  who  had 
been  listening  to  her  good-naturedly. 

"  Yes,  it  is  dull,"  he  agreed,  smilingly. 

Dinner  was  ready  and  the  banquet  began.  The  first 
glass  of  wine  made  us  feel  merry,  but  all  of  a  sudden, 
remembering  the  occasion  for  our  unceremonious  meeting, 
a  feeling  of  sadness  mingled  with  our  enjoyment.  We 
began  to  talk  of  the  pleasant  days  we  had  spent  together. 
In  imagination  we  again  passed  through  all  the  little  adven- 
tures of  our  excursions.  And  our  eyes  shone,  our  hearts 
beat  more  quickly,  we  shook  hands  and  clinked  glasses 
with  one  another. 

The  hours  passed  rapidly,  and  we  realised  with  growing 
distress  that  the  moment  of  parting  was  approaching.  At 
a  sign  from  his  wife  the  Baron  produced  an  opal  ring  from 
his  pocket  and  held  it  out  to  me. 

"  Here,  my  dear  old  fellow,"  he  said,  "  take  this  little 
keepsake  as  a  token  of  our  gratitude  for  the  friendship 
which  you  have  shown  us.  May  fate  give  you  your  heart's 
desire!  This  is  my  sincerest  wish,  for  I  love  you  as  a 
brother  and  respect  you  as  a  man  of  honour!  A  pleasant 
journey !  We  will  not  say  '  farewell,'  but  *  to  the  day  of 
our  next  meeting.*  " 

As  a  man  of  honour?  Had  he  guessed  my  motive? 
Read  my  conscience  ?  Not  at  all !  .  .  .  For  in  well-chosen 
words,  anxious  to  explain  his  little  speech,  he  burst  out 
into  a  string  of  abuse  of  poor  Selma;  he  accused  her  of 
having  broken  her  word,  of  having  sold  herself  to  a  man 
who  .  .  .  well,  to  a  man  whom  she  did  not  love,  a  man 
who  owed  his  happiness  merely  to  my  extraordinary  de- 
cency. 

My  extraordinary  decency !  I  felt  ashamed,  but,  carried 
away  by  the  sincerity  of  this  simple  heart,  which  judged 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  69 

a  little  too  hastily,  perhaps,  I  suddenly  felt  very  unhappy, 
inconsolably  unhappy,  and  I  kept  up  the  lie  dressed  in 
the  outer  semblance  of  truth. 

The  Baroness,  deceived  by  my  clever  acting,  misled  by 
my  assumed  indifference,  believed  me  to  be  in  earnest,  and 
with  motherly  tenderness  tried  to  comfort  me. 

"  Have  done  with  her !  "  she  urged ;  "  forget  all  about 
her.  There  are  plenty  of  girls,  far  better  than  she  is. 
Don't  fret,  she's  not  worth  crying  for,  since  she  couldn't 
even  wait  for  you.  Besides,  I  may  tell  you  now — I've 
heard  things  about  her.    ..." 

And  with  a  pleasure  which  she  was  quite  unable  to  con- 
ceal, she  proceeded  to  disgust  me  still  further  with  my  sup- 
posed idol. 

"  Just  think,"  she  exclaimed,  "  she  practically  proposed 
to  an  officer  of  good  family,  and  she  made  herself  out  to 
be  ever  so  much  younger  than  she  is  .  .  .  she's  nothing 
but  a  common  flirt,  take  my  word  for  it." 

A  disapproving  gesture  from  the  Baron  made  her  realise 
her  mistake;  she  pressed  my  hand  and  apologised,  looking 
at  me  with  eyes  so  wistful  and  tender  that  I  felt  as  if  I 
should  die  of  grief.  The  Baron,  slightly  intoxicated,  made 
sentimental  speeches,  took  me  into  his  confidence,  over- 
whelmed me  with  brotherly  love,  attacked  me  with  endless 
toasts,  which  seemed  to  lose  themselves  in  infinity.  His 
swollen  face  beamed  benevolently.  He  looked  at  me  with 
his  caressing,  melancholy  eyes;  their  glance  dissipated 
every  shadow  of  doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  his  friendship 
which  I  might  have  entertained.  Surely  he  was  nothing 
but  a  big,  good-natured  child,  of  unquestionable  integrity; 
and  I  made  a  vow  to  behave  honourably  towards  him,  even 
if  it  should  kill  me. 

We  rose  from  the  table  to  say  good-bye,  perhaps  for 
ever.  The  Baroness  burst  out  sobbing,  and  hid  her  face 
on  her  husband's  shoulder. 


70  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  I  must  be  mad,"  she  exclaimed,  "  to  be  so  fond  of  this 
dear  boy  that  his  going  away  almost  breaks  my  heart !  " 

And  with  an  outburst  of  affection,  at  once  pure  and 
impure,  interested  and  disinterested,  passionate  and  full  of 
angelic  tenderness,  she  put  her  arms  round  my  neck  and 
kissed  me  in  her  husband's  presence;  then  she  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  over  me  and  turned  to  go. 

My  old  charwoman,  who  was  waiting  on  the  threshold, 
wiped  her  eyes,  and  we  all  shed  tears.  It  was  a  solemn 
moment,  never  to  be  forgotten.  The  sacrifice  had  been 
made. 

I  went  to  bed  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  but  I  was 
unable  to  sleep ;  fear  of  missing  the  steamer  kept  me  awake. 
Worn  out  by  the  farewell  parties  which  had  been  following 
one  on  the  top  of  the  other  for  a  week,  my  nerves  unhinged 
from  too  much  drinking,  stupid  from  idleness,  overwrought 
by  the  excitement  of  the  evening,  I  tossed  between  the 
sheets  until  the  day  broke.  Knowing  that  my  will-power 
was  temporarily  enfeebled,  and  loathing  railway  journeys, 
because  the  shaking  and  jolting  is  injurious  to  the  spine,  I 
had  elected  to  travel  by  steamer;  moreover,  this  would 
prevent  any  attempt  on  my  part  to  draw  back.  The  boat 
was  to  start  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  cab 
called  for  me  at  five.     I  started  on  my  way  alone. 

It  was  a  windy  October  morning,  foggy  and  cold.  The 
branches  of  the  trees  were  covered  with  hoar  frost.  When 
I  arrived  on  the  North  Bridge,  I  imagined  for  a  second 
that  I  was  the  victim  of  an  hallucination:  there  was  the 
Baron,  walking  in  the  same  direction  as  my  cab.  Contrary 
to  our  agreement,  he  had  risen  early,  and  had  come  to  see 
me  off.  Deeply  touched  by  this  unexpected  proof  of 
friendship,  I  felt  altogether  unworthy  of  his  affection,  and 
full  of  remorse  for  ever  having  thought  evil  of  him. 

We  arrived  at  the  landing-stage.     He  accompanied  me 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  71 

on  board,  examined  my  cabin,  introduced  himself  to  the 
captain,  and  recommended  me  to  his  special  attention.  He 
behaved  like  an  elder  brother,  a  devoted  friend,  and  we 
said  good-bye  to  each  other,  deeply  moved. 

"  Take  care  of  yourself,  old  man,"  he  said.  "  You  are 
not  looking  well." 

I  really  felt  quite  ill,  but  I  pulled  myself  together  until 
the  mooring  ropes  were  cast  adrift. 

Then  a  sudden  terror  of  this  long  and  senseless  journey 
seized  me,  a  frantic  desire  to  throw  myself  into  the  water 
and  swim  to  the  shore.  But  I  had  not  the  strength  to 
yield  to  my  impulse,  and  remained  standing  on  deck,  un- 
decided what  to  do,  waving  my  handkerchief  in  response 
to  my  friend's  greeting  until  he  disappeared,  blotted  out 
by  the  vessels  which  rode  at  anchor  in  the  roads. 

The  boat  was  a  heavily  loaded  cargo  steamer,  with  but 
one  cabin  on  the  main  deck.  I  went  to  my  berth,  stretched 
myself  on  the  mattress  and  pulled  the  blankets  over  me, 
determined  to  sleep  through  the  first  twenty-four  hours, 
so  as  to  prevent  any  attempt  at  escape  on  my  part.  I 
must  have  been  unconscious  for  half-an-hour,  when  I  sud- 
denly started  from  my  sleep  as  if  I  had  received  an  electric 
shock,  a  very  ordinary  result  of  dissipation  and  sleepless- 
ness. 

In  a  second  the  whole  dreary  reality  had  flashed  into 
my  mind.  I  went  on  deck  to  exercise  my  stiff  limbs.  I 
watched  the  barren  brown  shores  receding  before  my  eyes, 
the  trees  stripped  of  their  leaves,  the  yellowish-grey  mead- 
ows; in  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  snow  was  already  lying. 
The  water  looked  grey  with  sepia-coloured  spots;  the  sky 
was  leaden  and  full  of  gloom;  the  dirty  deck,  the  uncouth 
sailors — everything  contributed  to  deepen  my  depression. 
I  felt  an  unspeakable  longing  for  human  companionship, 
but  there  did  not  appear  to  be  a  single  passenger — not  one ! 
I  climbed  on  the  bridge  to  look  for  the  captain.    I  found  him 


72  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

a  bear  of  the  worst  description,  absolutely  unapproachable. 
I  was  a  prisoner  for  ten  days,  solitary,  cast  away  among 
people  without  understanding,  without  feeling.  It  was 
torture. 

I  resumed  my  walk  on  deck,  up  and  down,  in  all  direc- 
tions, as  if  my  restless  movements  could  increase  the  speed 
of  the  boat.  My  burning  brain  worked  under  high  pres- 
sure; a  thousand  ideas  flashed  into  my  mind  in  a  second; 
the  suppressed  memories  rose,  pushing  and  chasing  each 
other.  A  pain  like  toothache  began  to  torment  me,  but 
in  my  confusion  I  could  neither  describe  nor  locate  it. 
The  further  the  steamer  advanced  into  the  open  sea,  the 
greater  became  the  strain.  I  felt  as  if  the  bond  which 
bound  me  to  my  native  country,  to  my  family,  to  her,  was 
tearing  asunder.  Deserted  by  everybody,  tossing  on  the 
high  seas  between  heaven  and  earth,  I  seemed  to  be  losing 
all  foothold,  and  in  my  loneliness  I  felt  afraid  of  every- 
thing and  everybody.  It  was,  doubtless,  a  sign  of  consti- 
tutional weakness,  for  I  remembered  that  as  a  boy  I  had 
cried  bitter  tears  on  a  pleasure  trip,  at  the  sudden  thought 
of  my  mother;  I  was  twelve  years  old  then,  but,  bodily, 
I  was  developed  far  in  advance  of  my  years.  The  reason, 
in  my  opinion,  was  that  I  had  been  born  prematurely,  or 
perhaps  even  attempts  had  been  made  to  suppress  life 
before  it  could  properly  be  said  to  have  come  into  exist- 
ence. Such  things  happen  only  too  frequently  in  large 
families.  At  any  rate,  I  felt  sure  that  this  was  the  cause 
of  the  despondency  which  invariably  overcame  me  when 
I  was  about  to  make  a  change  in  my  surroundings.  Now, 
in  tearing  myself  away  from  my  familiar  environment,  I 
was  tormented  with  dread  of  the  future,  the  unknown 
country,  the  ship's  crew.  Impressionable,  like  every  pre- 
maturely born  chUd,  whose  exposed  nerves  are  waiting  for 
the  still  bleeding  skin;  defenceless  like  a  crab  which, 
having    cast    its    shell,    seeks    protection  underneath  the 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  73 

stones,  and  feels  every  change  of  the  sinking  barometer, 
I  wandered  about,  trying  to  find  a  soul  stronger  than  mine, 
take  hold  of  a  firm  hand,  feel  the  warmth  of  a  human 
presence,  look  into  a  friendly  eye.  Like  a  squirrel  in  its 
cage,  I  ran  round  the  upper  deck,  picturing  to  myself  the 
ten  days  of  suffering  which  awaited  me.  I  remembered 
that  I  had  only  been  on  board  for  an  hour!  A  long  hour, 
more  like  a  day  of  agony  .  .  .  and  not  a  glimmer  of  hope 
at  the  end  of  this  accursed  j  ourney !  I  tried  to  reason 
with  myself,  and  all  the  time  rebelled  against  reason. 

Who  compelled  me  to  go.''  Who  had  a  right  to  blame 
me  if  I  returned }  .  .  .  Nobody !  And  yet !  .  .  .  Shame, 
the  fear  of  making  myself  a  laughing-stock,  honour!  No! 
No!  I  must  abandon  all  hope.  Moreover,  the  boat  would 
not  call  anywhere  on  her  way  to  Havre.  Forward  then, 
and  courage! 

But  courage  depends  on  strength  of  body  and  mind, 
and  at  the  moment  I  lacked  both.  Haunted  by  my  dreary 
thoughts,  I  turned  towards  the  lower  deck,  for  by  now  I 
knew  the  upper  deck  down  to  its  smallest  details,  and  the 
sight  of  its  rails,  rigging  and  tackling  bored  me  like  a  book 
read  until  one  knows  it  by  heart.  On  my  way  I  almost 
tumbled  over  a  person  seeking  shelter  from  the  wind  behind 
the  cabin.  It  was  an  old  lady,  dressed  in  black,  with  grey 
hair  and  a  careworn  face. 

She  gazed  at  me  attentively,  with  sympathetic  eyes.  I 
walked  up  to  her  and  sj>oke  to  her.  She  answered  me  in 
French,  and  we  soon  became  acquainted. 

After  the  exchange  of  a  few  commonplaces,  we  confided 
to  each  other  the  purpose  of  our  journey.  She  was  not 
travelling  for  pleasure.  The  widow  of  a  timber-merchant, 
she  had  been  staying  with  a  relative  in  Stockholm,  and 
was  now  on  her  way  to  visit  her  insane  son,  confined  in  a 
lunatic  asylum  at  Havre. 


74  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Her  account  was  so  simple  and  yet  so  heartrending  that 
it  affected  me  strongly,  and  probably  her  story,  impressing 
itself  on  the  cells  of  my  already  overwrought  brain,  led 
up  to  what  followed. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  lady  ceased  talking,  and,  gazing  at 
me  with  a  look  of  dismay,  exclaimed,  sympathetically — 

"  Are  you  ill?  " 

"I?" 

"  Yes,  you  look  ill.    You  should  try  and  get  some  sleep." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  never  closed  my  eyes  last  night, 
and  I  am  over-tired.  I've  been  suffering  from  sleeplessness 
for  some  time,  and  nothing  seems  to  be  able  to  procure 
me  the  much-needed  rest." 

"  Let  me  try.  Go  to  bed  at  once.  I  will  give  you  a 
draught  that  will  send  you  to  sleep  standing." 

She  rose,  pushed  me  gently  before  her,  and  forced  me 
to  go  to  bed.  Then  she  disappeared  for  a  moment  and 
returned  with  a  small  flask,  containing  a  sleeping  draught. 
She  gave  me  a  dose  in  a  spoon. 

"  Now  you  are  sure  to  be  able  to  sleep." 

I  thanked  her,  and  she  carefully  covered  me  with  the 
blankets.  How  well  she  understood  what  she  was  about! 
She  radiated  warmth,  that  warmth  which  a  baby  seeks  in 
the  arms  of  its  mother.  Under  the  gentle  touch  of  her 
hands  I  grew  calm,  and  two  minutes  later  unconsciousness 
began  to  steal  over  me.  I  seemed  to  have  become  an 
infant  again.  I  saw  my  mother  busying  herself  round  my 
bed  and  caring  for  me.  Gradually  her  fading  features 
mingled  and  became  one  with  the  finely-chiselled  face  of 
the  Baroness  and  the  sympathetic  expression  of  the  com- 
passionate nurse  who  had  just  left  me.  In  the  care  of 
these  women,  who  hovered  round  my  bed,  I  faded  away  like 
a  paling  colour,  went  out  like  a  candle,  lost  consciousness. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  75 

When  I  awoke  I  did  not  remember  any  dream,  but  a 
fixed  idea  haunted  me,  as  if  it  had  been  suggested  to  me 
during  my  sleep:  I  must  see  the  Baroness  again,  or  I  shall 
go  out  of  my  mind ! 

Shivering  with  cold,  I  sprang  from  my  bed;  the  salt- 
laden  wind,  penetrating  through  every  chink  and  cranny, 
had  made  it  damp.  When  I  stepped  out  of  my  cabin  the 
sky  was  pale  grey,  like  iron.  On  deck  the  great  waves 
washed  the  tackling,  watered  the  planks  and  splashed  my 
face  with  foam. 

I  looked  at  my  watch  and  calculated  the  distance  which 
the  steamer  must  have  travelled  while  I  slept.  In  my 
opinion  we  were  now  in  the  archipelago  of  Norrkoping; 
all  hope  of  return  was  therefore  dead.  Everything  was 
strange  to  me,  the  scattered  islands  in  the  bay,  the  rugged 
coast,  the  shape  of  the  cottages  dotted  along  the  shore, 
and  the  cut  of  the  sails  on  the  fishing-smacks.  Amid 
these  unfamiliar  surroundings  I  felt  the  first  pangs  of  home- 
sickness. A  sullen  wrath  choked  me,  I  felt  a  wild  despair 
in  finding  myself  packed  on  this  cargo-boat  in  spite  of  my- 
self, in  deference  to  a  higher  power,  in  the  imperious  name 
of  Honour! 

When  my  wrath  had  exhausted  itself,  my  strength  had 
come  to  an  end.  Leaning  against  the  rail,  I  let  the  waves 
lash  my  burning  face,  while  my  eyes  greedily  devoured 
the  coastline,  eager  to  discover  a  ray  of  hope.  And  again 
and  again  my  mind  returned  to  the  idea  of  swimming  to 
the  shore. 

For  a  long  time  I  stood  gazing  at  the  swiftly-receding 
outlines  of  the  coast.  The  wind  had  dropped,  and  I  grew 
calmer,  rays  of  a  tranquil  happiness  illuminated  my  soul; 
the  pressure  on  my  surcharged  brain  grew  less;  pictures 
of  beautiful  summer  days,  memories  of  my  first  youth 
came  into  my  mind,  although  I  was  at  a  loss  to  understand 
why    I    should   suddenly   think   of   them.      The   boat   was 


76  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

rounding  a  promontory:  the  roofs  of  red  houses  with  white 
garlands  rose  above  the  Scotch  firs;  a  flagstaff  became 
visible,  the  gay  patchwork  of  the  gardens,  a  bridge,  a 
chapel,  a  church  steeple,  a  graveyard.  .  .  .  Was  it  a 
dream?    A  delusion? 

No,  it  was  the  quiet  seaside  place  where  I  had  spent 
many  summers  in  my  student  days.  Up  there  was  the 
tiny  house  where  I  had  passed  a  night,  last  spring,  with 
her  and  him,  after  we  had  spent  the  day  sailing  on  the 
sea  and  wandering  through  the  woods.  It  was  there — 
there — on  the  top  of  that  hill,  under  the  ash-trees,  on  the 
balcony,  where  I  had  seen  her  delicate  face,  illuminated 
by  the  sunshine  of  her  golden  hair,  and  crowned  by  the 
little  Japanese  hat  with  the  blue  veil,  while  her  small, 
gloved  hand  had  beckoned  me  to  come  to  dinner.  .  .  . 
She  was  there  now,  I  could  see  her  plainly,  she  was  waving 
her  handkerchief  to  me.  ...  I  could  hear  her  melodious 
voice  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  what  was  happening  ?  The  boat  was 
slowing  down,  the  engine  stopped  .  .  .  the  pilot  cutter 
came  to  meet  us  .  .  .  in  an  instant  ...  a  flash  of 
thought — a  single,  obsessing  thought,  moved  me  with 
electric  force — with  the  spring  of  a  tiger  I  boimded  up  the 
stairs  which  led  to  the  bridge — I  stood  before  the  captain 
— I  shouted — 

"  Have  me  put  ashore  at  once — or  I  shall  go  mad !  " 

The  captain  looked  at  me  sharply,  scrutinisingly,  and 
without  vouchsafing  a  reply,  dismayed  as  if  he  had  looked 
into  the  face  of  an  escaped  lunatic,  he  called  to  the  second 
oflScer  and  said,  imperatively — 

"  Have  this  gentleman  and  his  luggage  put  ashore.  He 
is  ill." 

Before  five  minutes  had  elapsed,  I  was  on  board  the 
pilot  cutter;  they  rowed  with  such  vigour  that  we  landed 
in  a  very  short  time. 

I  possess  the  remarkable  gift  of  becoming  blind  and  deaf 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  77 

when  it  suits  me.  I  was  walking  along  the  road  leading 
to  the  hotel  without  having  heard  or  seen  anything  hurtful 
to  my  vanity;  neither  a  glance  from  the  pilots,  betraying 
that  they  guessed  my  secret,  nor  a  disparaging  remark 
from  the  man  who  was  carrying  my  luggage. 

Arrived  at  the  hotel,  I  asked  for  a  room,  ordered  an 
absinthe,  lighted  a  cigar  and  began  to  reflect. 

"  Had  I  gone  mad  ?  Was  I  in  such  imminent  peril  of 
insanity  that  an  immediate  landing  had  been  necessary  ?  " 

In  my  present  state  of  mind  I  was  incapable  of  forming 
an  opinion,  for  a  madman,  according  to  the  verdict  of  the 
doctors,  is  not  conscious  of  his  mental  disorder,  and  the 
association  of  his  ideas  proves  nothing  against  their  irregu- 
larity. Like  a  scientist,  I  examined  similar  occurrences 
which  had  happened  to  me  before. 

When  I  was  still  a  boy  at  college,  my  nervous  excita- 
bility, exaggerated  by  exasperating  events,  passion,  the 
suicide  of  a  friend,  distrust  of  the  future,  had  been  in- 
creased to  such  an  extent  that  everything  filled  me  with 
apprehension,  even  in  broad  daylight.  I  was  afraid  to 
stay  in  a  room  by  myself;  I  was  haunted  by  my  own 
spectre,  and  my  friends  took  it  in  turns  to  spend  the  night 
with  me,  while  the  candles  burned  and  the  fire  crackled 
in  the  stove. 

Another  time,  in  an  attack  of  wild  despair,  following  on 
all  sorts  of  misfortunes,  I  ran  across  country,  wandered 
through  the  woods,  and  at  last  climbed  to  the  top  of  a 
pine  tree.  There  I  sat  astride  on  a  branch  and  made  a 
speech  to  the  Scotch  firs  which  spread  out  their  branches 
below  me,  endeavouring  to  drown  their  voices,  imagining 
that  I  was  a  speaker  addressing  an  assembled  crowd.  It 
was  not  so  very  far  from  here,  on  an  island  where  I  had 
spent  many  summers,  and  the  headland  of  which  was 
plainly  visible  from  where  I  stood. 

Remembering  that  incident,  with  all  its  ridiculous  de- 


78  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

tails,  I  could  not  help  admitting  to  myself  that,  at  any 
rate  at  times,  I  was  subject  to  mental  delusions. 

What  was  I  to  do  now?  Should  I  communicate  with 
my  friends  before  the  rumour  of  my  attack  had  reached 
the  town?  But  the  disgrace  and  shame  of  having  to 
acknowledge  that  henceforth  I  was  on  a  level  with  the 
irresponsible!     The  thought  was  unbearable. 

Lie,  then!  Double  without  being  able  to  throw  the 
pursuers  oflF  th,e  scent.  It  went  against  the  grain.  Tor- 
mented by  doubts,  hesitating  between  different  plans  of 
escape  from  this  maze,  I  longed  to  run  away  in  order  to 
be  spared  the  terrible  questions  which  awaited  me.  Like 
a  wild  beast  which  feels  the  approach  of  death,  I  thought 
of  hiding  myself  in  the  wood  to  die. 

With  that  idea  in  my  mind,  I  went  slowly  through  the 
narrow  streets.  I  climbed  over  huge  rocks,  saturated  and 
rendered  slippery  by  the  autumnal  rains,  crossed  a  stubble 
field,  reached  the  little  house  where  I  once  had  lived.  The 
shutters  were  tightly  closed;  the  wild  vine  which  covered 
the  walls  up  to  the  roof  was  stripped  of  its  leaves,  and  the 
green  lattice-work  was  plainly  visible.  As  I  stood  again 
upon  that  sacred  spot,  sacred  to  my  heart  because  it  had 
seen  the  first  blossoming  of  our  friendship,  the  sense  of 
my  loss,  which  for  a  time  had  been  forced  into  the  back- 
ground, reasserted  itself.  Leaning  against  one  of  the  sup- 
ports of  the  wooden  balcony,  I  wept  like  a  forsaken  child. 

I  remembered  having  read  in  the  Thousand  and  One 
Nights  that  lovers  fall  ill  with  unsatisfied  longing,  and 
that  their  cure  depends  entirely  on  the  possession  of  the 
beloved  one.  Snatches  of  Swedish  folk-songs  came  into 
my  mind,  about  young  maidens  who,  in  despair  of  ever 
being  united  to  the  object  of  their  affections,  waste  away, 
and  bid  their  mothers  prepare  their  deathbeds  for  them. 
I  thought  of  Heine,  the  old  sceptic,  who  sings  of  the  tribe 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  79 

of  the  Asra,  "  who  die  when  they  love."  There  could  have 
been  no  doubt  of  the  genuineness  of  my  passion,  for  I  had 
gone  back  to  childhood,  obsessed  by  one  thought,  one 
picture,  one  single,  overpowering  sensation,  prostrating  me 
and  rendering  me  unable  to  do  anything  but  sigh. 

To  distract  my  thoughts,  I  let  my  eyes  travel  over  the 
glorious  landscape  spread  out  at  my  feet.  The  thousands 
of  islands  bristling  with  Scotch  firs,  with  here  and  there  a 
pine  tree,  which  seemed  to  swim  in  the  enormous  bay, 
gradually  decreased  in  size  and  transformed  themselves 
into  reefs,  cliffs  and  sandbanks,  until  the  huge  archipelago 
terminated  at  the  grey-green  line  of  the  Baltic,  where  the 
breakers  dashed  against  the  steep  bulwarks  of  the  remotest 
cliffs. 

The  shadows  of  the  drifting  clouds  fell  in  coloured 
strips  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  passing  from  dark  brown 
through  all  the  shades  of  bottle-green  and  Prussian  blue 
to  the  snowy  white  of  the  crested  waves.  Behind  a  fortress, 
situated  on  a  steep  cliff,  rose  a  column  of  black  smoke, 
ascending  without  a  break  from  an  invisible  chimney,  to 
be  blown  down  again  by  the  wind  on  to  the  foaming  waves. 
All  of  a  sudden  the  dark  hull  of  the  cargo-boat  which  I 
had  just  left  came  into  view.  The  sight  wrung  my  heart, 
for  the  steamer  seemed  like  a  witness  of  my  disgrace.  Like 
a  shying  horse,  I  bolted  and  fled  into  the  wood. 

Underneath  the  pointed  arches  of  the  Scotch  firs,  through 
the  needles  of  which  the  wind  whistled,  my  anguish  in- 
creased. Here  we  had  been  walking  together  when  the 
spring  sunshine  lay  on  the  tender  green,  when  the  Scotch 
firs  put  forth  their  purple  blossoms,  which  exhale  a  per- 
fume like  that  of  the  wild  strawberry;  when  the  juniper 
scattered  its  yellow  pollen  into  the  wind ;  when  the  anemones 
pushed  their  white  heads  through  the  dead  leaves  under  the 
hazel  bushes.  Her  little  feet  had  pressed  the  soft,  brown 
moss,  spread  out  like  a  rug,  while  with  a  silvery  voice  she 


80  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

had  sung  her  Finnish  songs.  Guided  by  the  clear  light  of 
remembrance,  I  found  again  the  two  gigantic  trees,  grown 
together  in  an  unending  embrace;  the  two  trunks  were 
bending  to  the  violent  gusts  of  the  wind,  and  rubbed  against 
each  other  with  a  grating  noise.  From  here  she  had  taken 
a  little  footpath  to  gather  a  water-lily  which  grew  in  a 
swamp. 

With  the  zeal  of  a  setter  I  tried  to  discover  the  trace 
of  her  pretty  foot,  the  imprint  of  which,  however  light, 
I  felt  sure  I  could  not  miss.  With  bent  shoulders  and 
eyes  glued  to  the  ground,  I  searched  the  path  without 
finding  anything.  The  ground  was  covered  with  the  foot- 
prints of  the  deer,  and  I  might  just  as  well  have  tried  to 
follow  the  trail  of  a  wood  nymph,  than  discover  the  spot 
which  the  dainty  shoe  of  the  adored  woman  had  trod. 
Nothing  but  mud-holes,  refuse,  fungi,  toadstools,  puff- 
balls,  decaying  and  decayed,  and  the  broken  stalks  of  flow- 
ers. Arrived  at  the  edge  of  the  swamp,  which  was  filled 
with  black  water,  I  found  a  certain  fleeting  comfort  in  the 
thought  that  it  had  once  reflected  the  sweetest  face  in  all 
the  world.  In  vain  I  looked  for  the  spot  where  the  water 
lilies  grew;  it  was  covered  up  by  dead  leaves,  blown  down 
by  the  wind  from  the  birch  trees. 

I  retraced  my  footsteps  and  plunged  into  the  heart  of 
the  forest;  the  soughing  of  the  wind  in  the  branches  deep- 
ened with  the  growing  size  of  the  trees.  In  the  very  depth 
of  despair  I  sobbed  aloud,  the  tears  raining  down  my 
cheeks;  like  a  wild  stag  I  trampled  on  the  fungi  and  toad- 
stools, tore  up  the  young  plants,  dashed  myself  against  the 
trees.  What  did  I  want?  I  didn't  know  myself.  My- 
pulses  throbbed,  an  inexpressible  longing  to  see  her  again 
came  over  me.  She,  whom  I  loved  too  deeply  for  desire, 
had  taken  possession  of  my  soul.  And  now  that  every- 
thing was  at  an  end,  I  longed  to  die,  for  life  without  her 
was  impossible. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  81 

But,  with  the  cunning  of  a  madman,  I  decided  to  get 
some  satisfaction  out  of  my  death  by  contracting  pneu- 
monia, or  a  similar  fatal  disease;  for  in  that  case,  I  argued, 
I  should  have  to  be  in  bed  for  some  time;  I  could  see  her 
again  and  could  kiss  her  hand  in  saying  good-bye  for  ever. 

Comforted  by  this  sudden  thought,  I  turned  my  steps 
towards  the  coast;  it  was  not  difficult  to  find  it,  I  had  but 
to  be  guided  by  the  roar  of  the  breakers,  which  led  me 
across  the  wood. 

The  coast  was  precipitous  and  the  water  deep,  every- 
thing as  it  should  be.  With  careful  attention,  which 
betrayed  nothing  of  my  sinister  purpose,  I  undressed 
myself;  I  hid  my  clothes  in  a  plantation  of  alder  trees  and 
pushed  my  watch  into  a  hole  in  the  rock.  The  wind  was 
cold;  at  this  time  of  the  year,  in  October,  the  temperature 
of  the  water  could  be  but  a  few  degrees  above  freezing- 
point.  I  took  a  run  over  the  rocks  and  threw  myself 
headlong  into  the  water,  aiming  at  a  cleft  between  two 
gigantic  waves.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  fallen  into  red-hot  lava. 
But  I  rose  quickly  to  the  surface,  dragging  up  with  me 
pieces  of  seaweed  which  I  had  glimpsed  at  the  bottom, 
and  the  tiny  vesicles  of  which  were  scratching  my  legs.  I 
swam  out  into  the  open  sea,  breasting  the  huge  waves, 
greeted  by  the  laughter  of  the  sea  gulls  and  the  cawing  of 
the  crows.  When  my  strength  began  to  fail,  I  turned  and 
swam  back  to  the  cliff. 

Now  the  moment  of  greatest  importance  had  arrived. 
According  to  all  instructions  given  to  bathers,  the  real 
danger  consists  in  remaining  too  long  out  of  the  water  in 
a  state  of  nudity.  I  sat  down  on  the  rock  which  was  most 
fully  exposed  to  the  wind,  and  allowed  the  October  gale  to 
lash  my  bare  back.  My  muscles,  my  chest  immediately 
contracted,  as  if  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  would 
protect  the  vital  organs  at  any  price.  But  I  was  unable 
to  remain  on  the  same  spot,  and,  seizing  the  branch  of  an 


82  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

alder  tree,  I  climbed  to  its  top.  The  tree  swayed  with 
the  convulsive,  uncontrollable  movements  of  my  muscles. 
In  this  way  I  succeeded  in  remaining  in  the  same  place  for 
some  time.  The  icy  air  scorched  my  skin  like  a  red-hot 
iron. 

At  last  I  was  convinced  that  I  had  attained  my  end,  and 
hastily  dressed  myself. 

In  the  meantime  night  had  fallen.  When  I  re-entered 
the  wood  it  was  quite  dark.  Terror  seized  me ;  I  knocked 
my  head  against  the  lower  branches  of  the  trees,  and  was 
obliged  to  feel  my  way  along.  Suddenly,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  my  frantic  fear,  my  senses  became  so  acute  that  I 
could  tell  the  variety  of  the  trees  which  surrounded  me  by 
the  rustling  of  their  branches.  What  depth  there  was  in 
the  bass  of  the  Scotch  firs,  with  their  firm  and  closely-set 
needles,  forming,  as  it  were,  gigantic  guitars;  the  tall  and 
more  pliable  stems  of  the  pines  gave  a  higher  note;  their 
sibilant  fife  resembled  the  hissing  of  a  thousand  snakes; 
the  dry  rustling  of  the  branches  of  the  birch  trees  recalled 
to  me  memories  of  my  childhood,  with  its  mingled  griefs 
and  pleasures ;  the  rustling  of  the  dead  leaves  clinging  to 
the  branches  of  the  oaks  sounded  like  the  rustling  of  paper ; 
the  muttering  of  the  junipers  was  almost  like  the  whisp>er- 
ing  voices  of  women,  telling  each  other  secrets.  The  gale 
tore  off  the  branch  of  an  alder  tree,  and  it  crashed  to  the 
ground  with  a  hollow  thud.  I  could  have  distinguished 
a  pine  cone  from  the  cone  of  a  Scotch  fir  by  the 
sound  it  made  in  falling;  my  sense  of  smell  detected  the 
proximity  of  a  mushroom,  and  the  nerves  of  my  large 
toe  seemed  to  feel  whether  it  trod  on  soil,  clubmoss  or 
maidenhair. 

Guided  by  the  acuteness  of  my  sensations,  I  came  to  the 
enclosure  of  the  graveyard,  and  walked  up  the  wooden 
steps.  I  felt  a  momentary  pleasure  in  the  sound  of  the 
weeping  willow  lashing  the  tombstones  which  they  over- 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  83 

hung.  At  last,  stiff  with  cold,  shaking  at  every  unex- 
pected noise,  I  reached  the  village  and  walked  past  the 
houses,  which  shone  feebly  in  the  dark,  to  the  hotel. 

As  soon  as  I  had  arrived  in  my  room  I  sent  off  a  telegram 
to  the  Baron,  informing  him  of  my  sudden  illness  and 
enforced  landing.  Then  I  drew  up  for  him  a  full  state- 
ment of  my  mental  condition,  mentioning  my  former 
attacks,  and  asking  him  to  keep  the  matter  quiet.  I  gave 
him  to  understand  that  my  illness  was  caused  by  the 
conduct  of  my  unfaithful  love,  whose  publicly  announced 
engagement  had  robbed  me  of  all  hope. 

I  went  to  bed  exhausted,  certain  of  having  contracted 
a  fatal  fever.  Then  I  rang  for  the  servant  and  asked  her 
to  send  for  a  doctor.  On  her  reply  that  no  doctor  was 
available,  I  begged  her  to  send  for  a  clergyman,  so  that 
I  could  make  my  last  wishes  known  to  him. 

And  from  that  moment  I  was  prepared  to  die  or  go  out 
of  my  mind. 

The  clergyman  appeared  almost  immediately.  He  was 
a  man  about  thirty,  and  looked  like  a  farm  laborer  in 
Sunday  clothes.  Red-haired  and  freckled,  with  a  half- 
vacant  look  in  his  eyes,  he  did  not  inspire  me  with  sym- 
pathy ;  for  a  long  time  I  could  find  no  words,  for  I  did  not 
know  what  to  say  to  this  man,  who  possessed  neither 
education,  the  wisdom  of  age,  nor  a  knowledge  of  the 
human  heart. 

He  remained  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  self- 
conscious,  like  a  provincial  in  the  presence  of  the  inhabitant 
of  a  large  city,  until  I  motioned  him  to  take  a  chair. 

Then  he  began  his  cross-examination. 

"  You  have  sent  for  me,  sir?     You  are  in  trouble?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  There  is  no  happiness  but  in  Jesus." 

Although  I  was  hankering  after  quite  another  sort  of 
happiness,   I   did   not  contradict  him,  and  the   evangelist 


84  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

rambled  on,  uninterruptedly,  monotonously,  verbosely. 
The  old  tenets  of  the  catechism  lulled  me  gently  to  sleep, 
and  the  presence  of  a  human  being  entering  into  spiritual 
relationship  with  my  soul  gave  me  new  strength. 

But  the  preacher,  suddenly  doubting  my  sincerity,  inter- 
rupted his  discourse  with  a  question — 

"  Do  you  hold  the  true  faith  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  but  go  on  speaking,  your  words  are 
doing  me  good.    ..."     And  he  returned  to  his  work. 

The  monotonous  sound  of  his  voice,  the  radiations  from 
his  eyes,  the  warmth  which  emanated  from  his  body, 
affected  me  like  a  magnetic  fluid.  In  half-an-hour's  time 
I  was  fast  asleep. 

When  I  awoke,  the  mesmerist  had  gone;  the  servant 
brought  me  a  sleeping-draught,  with  strict  injunctions 
from  the  chemist  to  be  careful,  as  the  bottle  contained 
sufficient  poison  to  kill  a  man.  Needless  to  say,  as  soon 
as  she  had  turned  her  back,  I  drank  the  whole  contents 
of  the  flask  at  a  gulp.  Then,  firmly  determined  to  die, 
I  buried  myself  under  the  blankets,  and  sleep  was  not  long 
in  coming. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  on  the  following  morning  I  was 
not  in  the  least  surprised  to  find  my  room  flooded  by  the 
rays  of  a  brilliant  sun,  for  my  sleep  had  been  visited  by 
bright  and  rosy  dreams. 

"  I  dream,  therefore  I  exist,"  I  said  to  myself.  I  felt 
my  body  all  over,  so  as  to  discern  the  height  of  the  fever, 
or  the  presence  of  any  signs  of  pneumonia.  But,  in  spite 
of  my  firm  resolution  to  bring  about  a  crisis,  my  condition 
was  fairly  normal.  My  brain,  although  a  little  stupefied, 
functioned  easily,  no  longer  under  the  high  pressure  of  the 
previous  day,  and  twelve  hours'  sleep  had  fully  restored 
the  vigor  which,  thanks  to  bodily  exercises  of  all  descrip- 
tions, practised  since  my  early  youth,  I  usually  enjoyed. 
...   A  telegram  was  handed  me.     My  friends  were 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  85 

informing  me  that  they  would  arrive  by  the  two  o'clock 
boat. 

I  was  overwhelmed  with  shame.  What  was  I  to  say? 
What  attitude  was  I  to  adopt  .-^     ...     I  reflected    .     .     . 

My  reawakened  manhood  rebelled  against  humiliating 
resolutions;  after  a  hasty  review  of  the  circumstances,  I 
decided  to  remain  at  the  hotel  until  I  had  completely 
recovered,  and  continue  my  journey  by  the  next  steamer. 
In  this  way  honour  would  be  saved,  and  the  visit  from  my 
friends  would  be  but  one  more  leave-taking — the  very  last. 

When  I  remembered  what  had  occurred  on  the  previous 
day,  I  hated  myself.  That  I,  the  strong-minded,  the 
sceptic,  should  have  committed  such  absurdities !  And 
that  clergyman's  visit!  How  was  I  to  explain  that.''  It 
was  true,  I  had  only  sent  for  him  in  his  official  capacity, 
and,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  he  had  but  acted  as  a 
hypnotist!  But  to  outsiders  it  was  bound  to  look  like  a 
conversion.  Monstrous  confessions  would  very  likely  be 
hinted  at,  a  criminal's  last  avowal  of  his  crime  on  his  death- 
bed. What  a  pretty  topic  for  the  villagers  who  stood  in 
close  communication  with  the  town!  What  a  treat  for 
the  porters ! 

A  trip  abroad,  undertaken  at  once,  was  the  only  way  out 
of  this  unbearable  situation.  Like  a  castaway,  I  spent  the 
morning  in  walking  up  and  down  before  the  verandah, 
watching  the  barometer,  studying  the  time-tables.  Time 
passed  fairly  rapidly.  The  steamer  appeared  at  the  mouth 
of  the  estuary  before  I  had  made  up  my  mind  whether  to 
walk  to  the  landing-stage  or  remain  at  the  hotel.  As  I 
had  no  desire  to  be  stared  at  by  an  inquisitive  crowd,  I  at 
last  went  to  my  room. 

A  few  minutes  later  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  Baroness: 
she  was  making  inquiries  of  the  landlady  about  my  health. 
I  went  out  to  meet  her,  and  she  almost  kissed  me  before 
the  eyes  of  all  the  by-standers.    With  a  heart  full  to  over- 


86  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

flowing,  she  deplored  my  illness,  which  she  regarded  as  the 
result  of  overwork,  and  advised  me  to  return  to  town,  and 
put  off  my  journey  until  the  spring. 

She  was  beautiful  to-day.  In  her  closely-fitting  fur 
coat,  with  its  long  and  supple  hairs,  she  looked  like  a 
llama.  The  sea-breezes  had  brought  the  blood  to  her 
cheeks,  and  in  her  eyes,  magnified  by  the  excitement  of 
her  visit,  I  could  read  an  expression  of  infinite  tenderness. 
In  vain  I  begged  her  not  to  alarm  herself  on  my  account, 
and  assured  her  that  I  had  almost  fully  recovered.  She 
found  that  I  looked  like  a  corpse,  declared  me  imfit  for 
work,  and  treated  me  like  a  child.  And  how  sweetly  she 
played  the  part  of  a  mother!  The  tone  of  her  voice  was 
a  caress;  she  playfully  used  terms  of  endearment;  she 
wrapped  her  shawl  around  me;  at  table  she  spread  my 
dinner-napkin  over  my  knees,  poured  out  some  wine  for 
me,  looked  after  me  in  every  way.  I  wondered  why  she 
did  not  thus  devote  herself  to  her  child  rather  than  to  the 
man  who  was  all  the  time  striving  to  hide  his  passion, 
which  threatened  to  defy  all  control. 

In  this  disguise  of  the  sick  child,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  was  like  the  wolf  who,  after  having  devoured  the  grand- 
mother, lies  down  on  her  bed  waiting  for  Little  Red 
Riding-hood,  that  he  may  devour  her  also. 

I  blushed  before  this  unsophisticated  and  sincere  hus- 
band, who  overwhelmed  me  with  kindness,  asked  for  no 
explanations.  And  yet  I  was  not  at  fault.  I  obstinately 
hardened  my  heart,  and  received  all  the  attentions  which 
the  Baroness  showered  on  me  with  an  almost  insulting 
indifference. 

At  dessert,  when  the  time  for  the  return  journey  had 
come,  the  Baron  proposed  that  I  should  return  with  them. 
He  offered  me  a  room  in  his  house  which,  he  said,  was  wait- 
ing to  receive  me.  I  am  glad  to  say  that  my  answer  was 
a   decided   refusal.      Terrified   at   this   dangerous   playing 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  87 

with  fire,  I  was  firm  in  my  decision.  I  would  stay  here  for 
a  week  to  recover  entirely,  and  then  return  to  town  to  my 
old  attic. 

In  spite  of  all  their  objections,  I  persisted.  Strange; 
as  soon  as  I  pulled  myself  together  and  made  a  determined 
stand,  the  Baroness  became  almost  hostile  to  me.  The 
more  I  vacillated  and  humored  her  whims,  the  fonder  she 
seemed  of  me,  the  more  she  praised  my  wisdom,  my 
amiabihty.  She  swayed  and  bewildered  me,  but  as  soon 
as  I  opposed  her  seriously,  she  turned  her  back  on  me  and 
treated  me  with  dislike,  almost  with  rudeness. 

While  we  were  discussing  the  Baron's  proposal  to  live 
under  one  roof,  she  drew  a  glowing  picture  of  such  an 
arrangement,  dwelling  on  the  pleasantness  of  being  able 
to  see  one  another  at  any  time  without  a  previous 
invitation. 

"  But,  my  dear  Baroness,"  I  objected,  "  what  would 
people  say  if  you  were  to  receive  a  bachelor  into  your 
young  menage?  " 

"  What  does  it  matter  what  people  say.''  " 

"  But  your  mother,  your  aunt.''  Moreover,  my  man's 
pride  rebels  against  a  measure  which  is  only  permissible 
in  the  case  of  a  minor." 

"  Bother  your  man's  pride !  Do  you  think  it  manly  to 
perish  without  opening  your  lips  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  behooves  a  man  to  be  strong." 

She  grew  angry,  and  refused  to  admit  that  a  man's  case 
differed  from  that  of  a  woman.  Her  woman's  logic 
confused  my  brain.  I  turned  to  the  Baron,  whose  answer- 
ing smile  showed  plainly  what  a  small  opinion  he  had  of 
female  brain-power. 

About  six  o'clock  the  steamer  weighed  anchor  and  bore 
my  friends  away.     I    returned  to  the  hotel  alone. 

It  was  a  splendid  evening.  The  sun  had  set  in  an 
orange-coloured  sky,  white  stripes  were  lying  on  the  deep 


88  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

blue  water,  a  coppery  moon  was  rising  behind  the  Scotch 
firs. 

I  was  sitting  at  a  table  in  the  dining-room,  lost  in 
thought,  now  mournful,  now  serene,  and  did  not  notice 
the  landlady  until  she  stood  close  by  me. 

"The  lady  who's  just  left  is  your  sister,  isn't  she?" 
she  asked. 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  Isn't  she?  How  strangely  you  resemble  one  another! 
I  should  liave  sworn  that  you  are  brother  and  sister." 

I  was  not  in  the  mood  to  continue  such  a  conversation, 
but  it  left  me  in  a  ferment  of  thoughts. 

Had  my  constant  intercourse  with  the  Baroness  affected 
the  expression  of  her  features?  Or  had  the  expression  of 
her  face  influenced  mine  during  this  six  months'  union  of 
our  souls?  Had  the  instinctive  desire  to  please  one 
another  at  any  price  been  the  cause  of  an  unconscious 
selection  of  gestures  and  expressions,  suppressing  the  less 
pleasing  in  favour  of  the  more  seductive?  It  was  not  at 
all  unthinkable  that  a  blending  of  our  souls  had  taken 
place,  and  that  we  no  longer  belonged  to  ourselves. 
Destiny,  or  rather  instinct,  had  played  its  fateful,  inevit- 
able part;  the  ball  had  been  set  rolling,  overthrowing  and 
destroying  everything  that  barred  its  way:  honour,  reason, 
happiness,  loyalty,  wisdom,  virtue! 

.  . .  And  this  guilelessness  to  propose  to  receive  mider 
her  roof  an  ardent  young  man,  a  man  of  the  age  when  the 
passions  are  so  strong  that  control  is  often  almost  impos- 
sible! Was  she  vicious,  or  had  love  obscured  her  reason? 
Vicious !  No,  a  thousand  times  no !  I  appreciated  her 
candid  ways,  her  gaiety,  her  sincerity,  her  motherly  ten- 
derness. That  she  was  eccentric,  that  her  mind  was  badly 
balanced,  she  had  herself  acknowledged  in  speaking  of  her 
faults — but  vicious?  No!  Even  the  little  tricks  which 
she  occasionally  resorted  to  in  order  to  cheer  me  up  were 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  89 

much  more  the  tricks  of  a  mature  woman  who  amuses 
herself  by  teasing  and  bewildering  a  timid  youth^  and  then 
laughs  at  his  confusion,  than  those  of  a  coquette  whose 
object  it  is  to  excite  a  man's  passions. 

But  I  must  exorcise  the  demon,  and  continue  to  mislead 
my  friends.  I  sat  down  at  the  writing-table  and  wrote  a 
letter  on  the  hackneyed  subject  of  my  imhappy  love  affair. 
I  added  two  impassioned  poems  entitled  "  To  Her  " — 
poems  which  could  be  understood  in  two  ways.  It  was 
open  to  the  Baroness  to  be  annoyed. 

Letter  and  poems  remained  unanswered;  perhaps  the 
trick  had  grown  threadbare,  perhaps  the  subject  was  no 
longer  found  interesting. 

The  calm  and  tranquil  days  which  followed  hastened  my 
recovery.  The  surrounding  landscape  seemed  to  have 
adopted  the  favourite  colours  of  the  adored  woman.  The 
wood,  in  which  I  had  spent  hours  of  purgatory,  now  smiled 
on  me.  Never  in  my  morning  rambles  did  I  find  as  much 
as  the  shadow  even  of  a  painful  memory  lurking  in  its  deep 
recesses,  where  I  had  fought  with  all  the  demons  of  the 
human  heart.  Her  visit,  and  the  certainty  that  I  should 
see  her  again,  had  given  me  back  life  and  reason. 


VII 

Knowing  from  experience  that  nobody  who  returns 
unexpectedly  is  quite  welcome,  it  was  not  without  a  feeling 
of  constraint,  not  without  misgivings,  that  I  called  on 
the  Baroness  as  soon  as  I  was  back  in  town. 

In  the  front  garden  everything  proclaimed  the  winter; 
the  trees  were  bare,  the  garden  seats  had  been  removed; 
there  were  gaps  in  the  fence  where  the  gates  had  been ;  the 
wind  was  playing  with  the  withered  leaves  on  the  paths ; 
the  cellar  holes  were  stuffed  with  straw. 

I  found  it  difficult  to  breathe  in  the  close  atmosphere 
of  the  drawing-room,  heated  by  a  tiled  stove.  Fixed  to 
the  walls,  the  stoves  had  the  appearance  of  sheets 
suspended  from  the  ceiling,  large  and  white.  The  double- 
windows  hung  in  their  hinges,  every  chink  was  pasted  over 
with  paper;  the  space  between  the  inner  and  outer  win- 
dows was  filled  with  snow-white  cotton  wool,  giving  the 
large  room  the  appearance  of  a  death-chamber.  In 
imagination  I  endeavoured  to  strip  it  of  its  semi-fashion- 
able furniture,  and  recall  its  former  aspect  of  rough 
homeliness.  In  those  days  the  walls  had  been  bare,  the 
floor  plain  deal;  the  memory  of  the  black  dining-table, 
which  could  boast  of  no  cover  and  with  its  eight  legs 
resembled  a  huge  spider,  called  up  the  severe  faces  of  my 
father  and  stepmother. 

The  Baroness  received  me  cordially,  but  her  melancholy 
face  betrayed  grief.  Both  uncle  and  father-in-law  were 
there,  playing  cards  with  the  Baron  in  an  adjoining  room. 
I  shook  hands  with  the  players,  and  then  returned  with 
the    Baroness    into    the    drawing-room.      She    sat    down 

90 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  91 

in  an  arm-chair  underneath  the  lamp  and  took  up 
some  crochet  work.  Taciturn,  morose,  not  at  all 
pretty,  she  left  the  conversation  entirely  to  me,  and 
since  she  made  no  replies,  it  soon  degenerated  into 
a  monologue. 

I  watched  her  from  my  chimney  comer  as  she  sat  with 
drooping  head,  bending  over  her  work.  Profoundly 
mysterious,  lost  in  thought,  she  seemed  at  times  oblivious 
of  my  presence.  I  wondered  whether  I  had  called  at  an 
inconvenient  time,  or  whether  my  return  to  town  had 
really  created  the  unfavourable  impression  which  I  had 
half  anticipated.  All  at  once  my  eyes,  travelling  round 
the  room,  were  arrested  by  a  display  of  her  ankles  under- 
neath the  tablecloth.  I  beheld  her  finely-shaped  calf, 
clothed  in  a  white  stocking;  a  gaily  embroidered  garter 
belted  that  charming  muscle  which  turns  a  man's  brain 
because  it  stimulates  his  imagination  and  tempts  him  to 
the  construction  of  the  whole  of  the  remaining  form. 
Her  arched  foot  with  its  high  instep  was  dressed  in  a 
Cinderella's  slipper. 

At  the  time  I  took  it  for  an  accident,  but  later  on  I 
learned  that  a  woman  is  always  conscious  of  being  looked 
at  when  she  exhibits  more  than  her  ankles.  Fascinated 
by  the  sight  I  changed  the  conversation,  and  aptly  turned 
it  on  the  subject  of  my  supposed  love  affair. 

She  drew  herself  up,  turned  towards  me,  and  glanced 
at  me  sharply. 

"  You  can  at  least  pride  yourself  on  being  a  faithful 
lover !  " 

My  eyes  remained  riveted  on  the  spot  underneath  the 
tablecloth,  where  the  snowy  stocking  shone  below  the 
cherry-coloured  ribbon.  With  an  effort  I  pulled  myself 
together;  we  looked  at  each  other;  her  pupils  shone  large 
in  the  lamplight. 

"  Unfortunately  I  can !  "  I  replied  dryly. 


92  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

The  sound  of  the  falling  cards  and  the  exclamations 
of  the  players  accompanied  this  brief  passage  of  arms, 

A  painful  silence  ensued.  She  resumed  her  crochet 
work,  and  with  a  quick  movement  allowed  the  skirts  to 
drop  over  her  ankles.  The  spell  was  broken.  My  eyes 
were  gazing  at  a  listless  woman,  badly  dressed.  Before 
another  quarter  of  an  hour  had  gone  by  I  took  my  leave, 
pretending  that  I  did  not  feel  well. 

As  soon  as  I  arrived  in  my  attic  I  brought  out  my 
play,  which  I  had  resolved  to  re-write.  Hard  work  would 
help  me  to  get  over  this  hopeless  love,  otherwise  bound 
to  end  in  a  crime  from  which  inclination,  instinct, 
cowardice  and  education  made  me  shrink.  And  once 
more  I  decided  to  break  off  these  fatal  relations. 

An  unexpected  incident  came  to  my  assistance:  two 
days  later  the  cataloguing  of  a  library,  belonging  to  a 
collector  who  lived  at  some  distance  from  the  town,  was 
offered  to  me. 

And  thus  I  came  to  pitch  my  tent  in  a  spacious  room, 
lined  with  books  up  to  the  ceiling,  of  an  old  manor  house 
dating  from  the  seventeenth  century.  Sitting  there,  I 
could  let  my  imagination  travel  through  all  the  epochs  of 
my  country's  history.  The  whole  Swedish  literature  was 
represented,  from  the  old  prints  of  the  fifteenth  century 
to  the  latest  publications.  I  gave  myself  up  to  my  work, 
eager  to  find  forgetfulness — and  I  succeeded.  A  week 
had  elapsed  and  I  had  never  once  missed  my  friends.  On 
Saturday,  the  day  on  which  the  Baroness  generally  was 
"  at  home,"  an  orderly  brought  me  an  invitation  from 
the  Baron,  full  of  friendly  rebuke  for  having  kept  away 
from  them  so  long.  I  was  half-pleased,  half-sorry 
to  find  myself  able  to  send  an  amiable  refusal  in  reply, 
regretting  that  my  time  was  no  longer  my  own. 

When  a  second  week  had  gone  by  another  orderly,  in 
full  dress,  brought  me  another  communication;  this  time 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  93 

it  came  from  the  Baroness,  It  was  a  rather  curt  request 
to  call  and  see  her  husband,  who,  she  said,  was  laid  up 
with  a  cold.  She  begged  me  to  let  them  have  news  of 
me.  It  was  impossible  to  make  further  excuses,  and  so 
I  went. 

The  Baroness  did  not  look  well,  and  the  slightly  indis- 
posed Baron  seemed  bored.  He  was  in  bed,  and  I  was 
asked  to  go  and  see  him.  The  sight  of  this  Holy  of 
Holies,  which  I  had  been  spared  up  to  now,  excited  my 
instinctive  repugnance;  this  sharing  of  a  common  room  by 
a  married  couple,  this  perpetual  presence  of  a  witness  on 
the  thousand  occasions  which  demand  privacy,  revolted 
me.  The  large  bed  which  the  Baron  occupied,  brazenly 
proclaimed  the  intimacy  of  their  union;  the  heap  of 
pillows,  piled  up  by  the  side  of  the  sick  man,  boldly 
marked  the  wife's  place.  The  dressing-table,  the  wash- 
stands,  the  towels,  everything  struck  me  as  being  unclean, 
and  I  had  to  make  myself  blind  to  overcome  my  disgust. 

After  a  few  words  at  the  foot  end  of  the  bed,  the 
Baroness  invited  me  to  take  a  glass  of  liqueur  in  the 
drawing-room,  and,  as  if  she  had  divined  them,  she  gave 
expression  to  my  thoughts  as  soon  as  we  were  alone.  In 
short,  disjointed  sentences  she  poured  out  her  heart  to  me. 

"  Isn't  it  wretched  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  ...  A  woman's  existence : 
without  an  object  in  life,  without  a  future,  without 
occupation.     It's  killing  me !  " 

"  But  your  child.  Baroness !  It  will  soon  be  time  to 
begin  her  education.  .  .  .  And  she  may  have  brothers 
and  sisters.    ..." 

"  I  will  have  no  more  children !  Am  I  in  the  world 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  being  a  nurse.''  " 

"  Not  a  nurse,  but  a  mother  in  the  highest  meaning 
of  the  word,  equal  to  her  task." 


94  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  Mother  or  housekeeper !  Thank  you !  One  can  hire 
a  housekeeper!  It's  easier.  And  then?  How  am  I  to 
occupy  myself?  I  have  two  maids,  excellent  substitutes. 
No!     I  want  to  live.    ..." 

"  Go  on  the  stage?  " 

"Yes!" 

"  But  that's  out  of  the  question !  " 

"  I  know  that  only  too  well !  And  it  irritates  me, 
makes  me  stupid    .    .    .    kills  me !  " 

"  What  about  a  literary  career?  It's  not  in  such  bad 
repute  as  the  stage !  " 

"  The  dramatic  art  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  highest  of 
all  arts.  Come  what  may,  I  shall  never  cease  to  regret 
the  fact  that  I  have  missed  my  vocation.  And  what  have 
I  got  in  exchange ?    .    .    .    A  disappointment!  " 

The  Baron  called  to  us,  and  we  returned  to  his  bedside. 

"  What  was  she  talking  about?  "  he  asked  me. 

"  We  were  talking  about  the  theatre,"  I  replied. 

"  She's  crazy !  " 

"  Not  as  crazy  as  you  think,"  retorted  the  Baroness, 
and  left  the  room,  slamming  the  door. 

"  She  doesn't  sleep  at  night,"  began  the  husband, 
growing  confidential. 

"  No?  " 

"  She  plays  the  piano,  she  lies  on  the  sofa,  or,  rather, 
she  chooses  the  hours  of  the  night  to  do  her  accounts. 
For  heaven's  sake,  my  dear  young  sage,  tell  me  what  I'm 
to  do  to  put  an  end  to  this  madness !  " 

"Perhaps  if  she  had  a  large  family?"  I  ventured. 

He  pulled  a  face,  then  he  tried  to  look  unconcerned. 

"  She  was  very  ill  after  her  first  baby  was  born  .  .  . 
and  the  doctor  has  warned  her  .  .  .  and  moreover, 
children  cost  so  much.    .    .    .    You  understand  ?  " 

I  understood,  and  I  took  care  not  to  refer  again  to  the 
subject.     I  was  too  young  at  the  time  to  know  that  it  is 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  95 

the  patient  who  orders  the  doctor  what  to  prescribe 
for  her. 

Presently  the  Baroness  returned  with  her  little  girl,  and 
began  to  put  her  to  bed  in  her  small  iron  cot.  But  the 
little  one  refused  to  be  undressed,  and  began  to  scream. 
After  a  few  futile  attempts  to  calm  her,  her  mother 
threatened  her  with  the  rod. 

I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  child  being  punished  without 
losing  my  temper.  I  remembered  on  one  such  occasion 
raising  my  hand  against  my  own  father.  I  allowed  my 
anger  to  get  the  better  of  me,  and  interfered, 

"  Allow  me,"  I  said  ..."  but  do  you  think  that  a 
child  cries  without  a  reason.''  " 

"  She's  naughty." 

"  Then  there's  some  cause  for  it.  Perhaps  she's  sleepy, 
and  our  presence  and  the  lamplight  irritate  her." 

She  agreed,  taken  aback,  and,  perhaps,  conscious  that 
her  shrewish  conduct  had  produced  an  unfavourable 
impression  on  me. 

This  glimpse  of  her  home  life  cured  me  for  some  weeks 
of  my  love,  and  I  must  confess  that  the  scene  with  the 
rod  had  contributed  more  than  anything  else  to  my 
disillusion. 

The  autumn  dragged  on  monotonously  and  Christmas 
drew  near.  The  arrival  of  a  newly-married  couple  from 
Finland,  friends  of  the  Baroness,  brought  a  little  more 
life  in  our  relationship,  which  had  lost  much  of  its  charm. 
Thanks  to  the  Baroness,  I  received  numerous  invitations, 
and  presented  myself  in  evening  dress  at  suppers,  dinners 
and  occasionally  even  at  a  dance. 

While  moving  in  this,  her  world,  which  in  my  opinion 
lacked  dignity,  I  could  not  help  noticing  that  the  Baroness, 
under  cover  of  an  exaggerated  candour,  paid  a  great  deal 
of  attention  to  the  young  men,  watching  me  furtively  all 
the  while,  however,  to  see  the  effect  of  her  conduct  on  me. 


96  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Irritated  and  disgusted  by  her  brazen  flirtations,  which  I 
considered  bad  form,  I  responded  by  a  callouse  indifference. 
It  hurt  me  that  the  woman  whom  I  adored  should  behave 
like  a  vulgar  coquette. 

She  always  seemed  to  be  enjoying  herself  immensely, 
and  prolonged  the  parties  till  the  small  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing; I  became  the  more  and  more  convinced  that  she  was 
discontented  and  bored  with  her  home  life;  that  her  long- 
ing for  an  artistic  career  was  dictated  by  a  petty  vanity, 
a  desire  to  be  seen  and  enjoy  herself.  Vivacious,  full  of 
exuberant  spirits,  of  a  restless  disposition,  she  possessed 
the  art  to  shine;  she  was  always  the  centre  of  a  crowd, 
more  in  consequence  of  a  certain  gift  to  attract  people 
than  because  of  her  natural  charms.  Her  great  vitality, 
her  nervous  excitability,  compelled  the  most  refractory  to 
listen  to  her,  to  pay  homage  to  her.  And  I  also  noticed 
that  as  soon  as  her  nervous  force  was  exhausted,  the  spell 
was  broken,  and  she  was  left  sitting  alone  and  unnoticed 
in  a  quiet  corner.  Ambitious,  yearning  for  power, 
perhaps  heartless,  she  took  care  that  the  men  paid  her 
every  attention;  the  society  of  women  had  no  attraction 
for  her. 

Doubtless,  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  see  me  at  her 
feet,  doting,  vanquished,  sighing.  One  day,  after  an 
evening  of  triumph,  she  told  one  of  her  friends  that  I  was 
head  over  ears  in  love  with  her.  When  I  called  at  her 
friend's  house  a  short  time  afterwards,  I  stupidly 
remarked  that  I  had  hoped  to  meet  the  Baroness. 

"  Oh,  indeed !  "  laughed  the  lady  of  the  house,  "  you 
haven't  come  to  see  me  then !     How  unkind  of  you !  " 

"  Well,  I  haven't.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  here  by 
appointment." 

"  A  tryst,  then !  " 

"  You  may  call  it  so,  if  you  like !  Anyhow,  you'll  give 
me  credit  for  having  put  in  a  prompt  appearance !  " 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  97 

The  meeting  had  indeed  been  arranged  by  the  Baroness. 
I  had  but  carried  out  her  instructions  in  calling.  She  had 
given  me  away  to  save  her  own  skin. 

I  paid  her  out  by  spoiling  a  number  of  parties  for  her, 
for  my  absence  robbed  her  of  the  enjoyment  which  she 
drew  from  the  contemplation  of  my  sufferings.  But  I 
had  to  pay  a  heavy  penalty!  Watching  the  houses  to 
which  I  knew  her  to  be  invited,  I  plunged  the  dagger  into 
my  heart,  trembling  with  jealous  rage  whenever  I  saw 
her,  in  the  arms  of  a  partner,  gliding  past  the  windowg 
in  her  blue  silk  dress,  with  her  sunny  curls  rising  and 
falling  in  the  quick  movements  of  the  dance,  with  her 
charming  figure,  on  the  tiniest  feet  in  the  world. 


VIII 

We  had  navigated  the  cape  of  the  New  Year  and 
spring  was  approaching.  We  had  spent  the  winter  in  gay 
festivities,  in  intimate  companionship,  the  three  of  us. 
But  it  had  all  been  very  dreary:  we  had  quarrelled  and 
become  reconciled,  fought  battles  and  made  armistices, 
teased  one  another  and  become  the  best  of  friends  again. 
I  had  stayed  away  and  had  come  back. 

Now  March  was  near,  a  fateful  month  in  the  countries 
of  the  north,  because  passion  becomes  all-powerful  and 
the  destinies  of  lovers  are  fulfilled:  vows  are  broken,  the 
ties  of  honour,  of  family,  of  friendship  are  set  side. 

The  Baron  was  on  duty  early  in  the  month,  and  invited 
me  to  spend  a  day  with  him  at  the  guard-house.  I 
accepted  his  invitation.  A  son  of  the  people,  a  descendant 
of  the  middle-classes,  cannot  but  be  impressed  by  the 
insignia  of  the  highest  power  in  the  land.  At  the  side  of 
my  friend  I  walked  along  the  passage,  continually  saluted 
by  passing  officers ;  I  listened  to  the  rattling  of  the  swords ; 
the  "  Who  goes  there  ?  "  of  the  sentinels,  the  beating  of 
the  drums.  We  arrived  at  the  guard-room.  The  mili- 
tary decorations  of  the  room  stirred  my  imagination;  the 
portraits  of  the  great  generals  filled  me  with  reverence; 
the  colours  taken  at  Liitzen  and  Leipzic,  the  new  flags, 
the  bust  of  the  reigning  king,  the  helmets,  the  resplendent 
breast-pieces,  the  plans  of  battles,  all  these  roused  in  me 
that  feeling  of  uneasiness  which  the  lower  classes  feel  in 
contemplating  the  symbols  of  the  ruling  j>owers.  And  in 
his  impressive  surroundings  the  personality  of  the  captain 
became  more  imposing;  I  kept  close  to  his  side  in  case  any 
unpleasantness  should  arise. 

98 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  99 

As  we  entered  a  lieutenant  rose  and  saluted,  standing, 
and  I,  too,  felt  myself  the  superior  of  these  lieutenants, 
the  sworn  foes  of  the  sons  of  the  people,  and  the  authors' 
rivals  in  the  favour  of  the  ladies. 

A  soldier  brought  us  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  we  lighted 
our  cigars.  The  Baron,  anxious  to  amuse  me,  showed 
me  the  Golden  Book  of  the  regiment,  an  artistic  col- 
lection of  sketches,  water  paintings  and  drawings,  all  of 
them  representing  distinguished  oflBcers,  who  had  during 
the  last  twenty  years  belonged  to  the  Royal  Guards ; 
portraits  of  the  men  who  had  been  the  envy  and  admira- 
tion of  my  school  friends,  whom,  they  had  aped  in  their 
boyish  games.  It  tickled  my  middle-class  instincts  to  see 
all  those  favourites  of  fortune  caricatured  in  this  book, 
and  counting  on  the  applause  of  the  democratic  Baron, 
I  indulged  in  little  sallies  at  the  expense  of  those  disarmed 
rivals.  But  the  boundary-line  of  the  Baron's  democratic 
sympathies  differed  from  mine,  and  he  resented  my  sallies; 
the  spirit  of  caste  prevailed:  he  turned  the  leaves  more 
quickly,  and  did  not  stop  until  he  came  to  a  large  drawing 
representing  the  insurrection  of  1868. 

"  Look  at  this !  "  he  said,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  "  how 
we  charged  into  that  mob !  " 

"  Did  you  take  part  in  it?  " 

"  Didn't  I !  I  was  on  duty  that  day,  and  my  orders 
were  to  protect  the  stand  opposite  the  monument  which 
the  mob  was  attacking.  A  stone  hit  my  helmet.  I  was 
serving  out  the  cartridges,  when  a  royal  messenger  on 
horseback  arrived  and  stopped  my  little  band  from  firing. 
But  I  remained  proof-butt  and  target  for  the  stones 
thrown  by  the  crowd.  That's  all  I  ever  got  for  my 
democratic  sympathies." 

And  after  a  pause  he  continued,  still  laughing  and 
trying  to  catch  my  eye — 

"  You  remember  the  occasion.?  " 


100  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  Perfectly,"  I  said ;  "  I  was  walking  in  the  procession 
of  the  students."  But  I  did  not  mention  the  fact  that  I 
was  one  of  that  special  mob  on  which  he  had  been  so 
anxious  to  fire.  My  sense  of  justice  had  been  outraged 
because  that  particular  stand  had  been  reserved  for  a 
favoured  few  and  denied  to  the  people  on  a  public  festival. 
I  had  been  on  the  side  of  the  attacking  party,  and  had 
not  forgotten  the  stones  which  I  had  flung  at  the  soldiers. 

The  moment  I  heard  him  pronounce  the  word  "  mob  " 
with  aristocratic  disdain,  I  remembered  and  understood 
my  feeling  of  discomfort  in  entering  the  enemy's  fortress, 
and  the  sudden  change  which  had  come  over  my  friend's 
features  at  my  sarcasms  depressed  me.  The  hatred  of 
race,  the  hatred  of  caste,  tradition,  rose  between  us  like 
an  insurmoiintable  barrier,  and  as  I  regarded  him  sitting 
there,  the  sword  between  his  knees — a  sword  of  honour, 
the  hilt  of  which  was  ornamented  with  the  name  and  crown 
of  the  royal  giver — I  felt  strongly  that  our  friendship  was 
but  an  artificial  one,  the  work  of  a  woman,  who  constituted 
the  only  link  between  us.  The  haughty  tone  of  his  voice, 
the  expression  of  his  face,  seemed  more  and  more  in 
harmony  with  his  surroundings  and  took  him  further  and 
further  away  from  me.  To  bridge  over  the  gulf  which 
separated  us,  I  changed  the  conversation  and  inquired 
after  his  wife  and  little  daughter.  Instantly  his  brow 
cleared,  his  features  relaxed  and  resumed  their  normal 
expression  of  good-nature.  Seeing  him  look  at  me  with 
the  benevolent  eyes  of  the  ogre  caressing  Tom  Thumb,  I 
made  bold  to  pull  three  hairs  out  of  the  ogre's  beard. 

"Cousin  Matilda  is  expected  at  Easter,  isn't  she?"  I 
asked. 

"  She  is." 

"  I  shall  make  love  to  her." 

He  emptied  his  glass.  "  You  can  try,"  he  sneered, 
with  a  murderous  scowl. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  101 

"  Try?  Is  it  possible  that  her  affections  are  otherwise 
engaged  ?  " 

"  Not  .  .  .  that  I  know  of!  But  ...  I  think  I  may 
say  that.  ,  .  .  WeU,  you  can  try !  " 

And  with  a  tone  of  deepest  conviction — 
"  You  may  be  sure  to  get  your  money's  worth !  " 
This  sneering  remark  was  an  insult,  and  roused  my 
desire  to  defy  him.  If  I  made  love  to  that  other  woman, 
it  might  not  only  save  me  from  my  criminal  passion,  but 
it  would  also  give  satisfaction  to  the  Baroness,  whose 
legitimate  feelings  had  been  outraged. 

It  had  grown  dark.  I  rose  to  go  home.  The  captain 
accompanied  me  past  the  sentinels.  We  shook  hands  at 
the  barrier  gate,  which  he  slammed  after  me  as  if  he 
wanted  to  challenge  me. 

Spring  had  come.  The  snow  had  melted,  the  streets 
were  free  from  ice.  Half-starved  children  were  selling 
little  bunches  of  liverwort  in  the  streets.  The  windows  of 
the  flower-shops  glowed  with  azaleas,  rhododendron  and 
other  early  blossoms;  golden  oranges  gleamed  in  the 
greengrocers'  shops;  lobsters,  radishes  and  cauliflower 
appeared  on  the  costers'  barrows.  Under  the  North 
Bridge  the  waves  reflected  the  rays  of  the  sun.  On  the 
quays  the  steamers  were  being  newly  rigged  and  painted  in 
sea-green  and  scarlet.  The  men  who  had  grown  weak  in 
the  winter  darkness,  recovered  in  the  sunlight.  Woe  to 
the  weakling  when  love  gives  free  play  to  the  long- 
restrained  passions ! 

The  pretty  little  she-devil  had  arrived,  and  was  staying 
with  the  Baroness. 

I  paid  her  a  great  deal  of  attention.  She  had  apparently 
been  informed  of  my  designs,  and  consequently  she  amused 
herself  with  me.  We  had  been  playing  a  duet,  and  she 
was  leaning  against  my  left  arm  with  her  right  shoulder. 


102  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

The  Baroness  noticed  it  and  winced.  The  Baron  glared 
at  me  with  jealous  rage.  At  one  moment  he  was  jealous 
of  his  wife,  at  the  next  he  accused  me  of  flirting  with 
the  cousin.  Whenever  he  left  his  wife,  to  whisper  in  a 
corner  to  Matilda,  and  I  started  a  conversation  with  the 
Baroness,  he  lost  his  temper  and  interrupted  our  con- 
versation with  an  irrelevant  question.  I  answered  him 
with  a  sarcastic  smile,  and  sometimes  I  took  no  notice 
whatever  of  him. 

One  evening  we  were  all  having  supj>er  in  the  strictest 
family  circle.  The  mother  of  the  Baroness  was  present. 
She  had  grown  fond  of  me,  and  with  the  prevision 
frequently  met  with  in  old  women,  suspected  that  some- 
thing was  going  on  behind  the  scenes. 

Following  an  impulse  of  motherly  love,  dreading  some 
unknown  danger,  she  seized  my  hands,  and  holding  me 
with  her  eyes  said  gravely — 

"  I'm  sure  that  you're  a  man  of  honour.  I  don't  know 
what's  going  on  in  this  house.  But  promise  me  that  you 
will  watch  over  my  daughter,  my  only  child,  and  if  ever 
anything  should  happen  .  .  .  which  must  not  happen, 
promise  that  you  will  come  to  me  and  tell  me  everything." 

"  I  promise,"  I  answered,  and  kissed  her  hand  in  the 
Russian  fashion,  for  she  had  been  married  to  a  Russian 
for  many  years  and  had  been  left  a  widow  not  very 
long  ago. 

And  I  shall  keep  my  promise ! 

We  were  dancing  on  the  edge  of  a  crater.  The 
Baroness  had  grown  pale,  emaciated,  plain.  The  Baron 
was  jealous,  rude  and  insolent.  If  I  stayed  away  for  a 
day  or  two,  he  sent  for  me,  received  me  with  open  arms 
and  tried  to  explain  everything  by  a  misunderstanding, 
while  in  reality  we  understood  each  other  only  too  well. 

The  Lord  knows  what  was  going  on  in  this  house ! 

One  evening  the  charming  Matilda  had  retired  into  her 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  103 

bedroom  to  try  on  a  ball  dress.  The  Baron  quietly 
disappeared  soon  after,  leaving  me  alone  with  his  wife. 
After  half-an-hour  had  gone  by,  I  asked  what  had  become 
of  her  husband.'' 

"  He's  playing  lady's  maid  to  Matilda,"  she  replied. 

I  understood.  Presently,  evidently  regretting  her 
words,  she  added — 

"  There's  no  harm  in  it;  they're  relations.  One 
shouldn't  be  too  ready  to  think  evil !  " 

Then  she  changed  her  tone. 

"Are  you  jealous.''" 

"  Are  you."*  " 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  be  by  and  by." 

"  God  grant  that  you  will  be  soon !  It's  the  Mash  of  a 
true  friend." 

The  Baron  returned,  and  with  him  the  girl,  dressed  in 
a  pale  green  evening  dress,  cut  very  low. 

I  pretended  to  be  dazzled  by  her  appearance,  and 
screening  my  eyes  with  both  my  hands,  exclaimed — 

"  Don't  you  know  that  it's  dangerous  to  look  at  you?  " 

"Isn't  she  lovely?"  asked  the  Baroness  in  a  strange 
voice. 

After  a  short  time  the  couple  withdrew,  and  for  the 
second  time  we  were  left  by  ourselves. 

"  Why  are  you  so  unkind  to  me  these  days  ?  "  she  asked, 
with  tears  in  her  voice,  gazing  at  me  wistfully,  with  the 
eyes  of  an  ill-treated  dog. 

"  I  ?  .  .  .  I  had  no  idea  that  .  .  ." 

"  You've  changed  towards  me ;  I  wonder  why.  .  .  . 
If  I'm  to  blame  in  any  way.  .  .  ." 

She  pushed  her  chair  closer  to  mine,  looked  at  me  with 
luminous  eyes,  trembled  and  ...  I  jumped  up. 

"  The  Baron's  absence  is  really  extraordinary,  don't  you 
think  so?     This  confidence  on  his  part  is  insulting!  " 

"  What  d'you  mean?  " 


104  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  It's  not  right  of  him  to  leave  his  wife  alone  with  a 
young  man  and  shut  himself  up  with  a  girl.  .  .  ." 

"  You're  right,  it's  an  insult  to  me.  .  .  .  But  your 
manners!   ..." 

"  Never  mind  my  manners !  It's  hateful !  I  shall 
despise  you  if  you  won't  be  more  jealous  of  your  dignity. 
.  .  .  What  are  those  two  doing?  " 

"  He's  interested  in  Matilda's  ball  dress ! "  she 
answered,  with  an  innocent  face  and  a  fleeting  smile. 
"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do.''  " 

"  A  man  doesn't  assist  a  woman  at  her  toilet  imless 
there  are  certain  relations  between  them." 

"  She  is  a  child,  he  says,  and  looks  upon  him  as  a 
father." 

"  I  should  never  allow  any  children  to  play  *  papa  and 
mamma,'  much  less  grown-up  people." 

The  Baroness  rose,  went  out  of  the  room  and  returned 
with  her  husband. 

We  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  in  making  experi- 
ments with  animal  magnetism.  I  made  a  few  passes  over 
her  forehead,  and  she  acknowledged  that  it  calmed  her 
nerves.  But  all  of  a  sudden,  just  as  she  was  going  into  a 
trance,  she  shook  herself,  started  to  her  feet,  and  looked 
at  me  with  troubled  eyes. 

"  Let  me  go !  "  she  exclaimed ;  "  I  won't !  You  are 
bewitching  me !  " 

"  It's  your  turn  now  to  try  your  magnetic  powers,"  I 
said,  and  I  submitted  to  the  same  treatment  to  which 
I  had  subjected  her. 

I  sat  with  half-closed  eyes;  there  was  deep  silence  on 
the  other  side  of  the  piano;  my  glances  strayed  to  the  legs 
and  the  lyre-shaped  pedal  of  the  instrument  and  .  .  . 
I  thought  I  must  be  dreaming,  and  sprang  up  from  my 
chair.  At  the  same  moment  the  Baron  appeared  from 
behind  the  piano  and  offered  me  a  glass  of  piuich. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  105 

The  four  of  us  raised  our  glasses.  The  Baron  looked 
at  his  wife — 

"  Drink  to  your  reconciliation  with  Matilda/'  he 
pleaded. 

"  Your  health,  little  witch !  "  exclaimed  the  Baroness 
with  a  smile,  and  turning  to  me  she  added — 

"  I  must  tell  you  we  quarrelled  about  you !  " 

For  a  moment  I  did  not  know  how  to  reply.  Then  I 
asked  her  to  explain  her  words. 

"No,  no!  no  explanation!"  answered  a  chorus  of 
voices. 

"That's  a  pity,"  I  replied;  "in  my  opinion  we've 
been  playing  '  hide-and-seek '  far  too  long." 

The  rest  of  the  evening  passed  amid  general  constraint. 

"  Well,  I  don't  care !  "  I  muttered  on  my  way  home, 
searching  my  conscience. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  all  this?  Was  it  nothing 
but  the  innocent  whim  of  a  fantastic  mind?  Two  women 
quarrelling  over  a  man!  They  must  be  jealous,  then. 
Was  the  Baroness  mad  that  she  gave  herself  away  in  such 
a  manner?  I  did  not  think  so.  I  felt  sure  there  was 
something  else  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

"  What  is  going  on  in  this  house  ? "  I  asked  myself, 
brooding  over  the  strange  scene  which  had  startled  me  in 
the  evening,  the  very  improbability  of  which  made  me 
hesitate  to  believe  that  I  had  seen  anything  really  wrong. 

This  senseless  jealousy,  the  apprehension  of  the  old 
mother,  the  love  of  the  Baroness,  stimulated  by  the  spring 
air,  all  this  confused  my  mind,  seethed  and  fermented  in 
my  brain,  and  after  spending  a  sleepless  night,  I  decided 
for  a  second  time  not  to  see  her  again,  and  so  prevent  the 
threatening  calamity. 

With  this  intention  I  arose  in  the  morning  and  wrote 
her  a  sensible,  candid  and  humble  letter;  in  carefully 
chosen  language  I  protested  against  an  excessive  abuse  of 


106  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

friendship;  firmly,  without  any  explanation,  I  asked  for 
forgiveness  of  my  sins,  blamed  myself  for  having  caused 
ill-feeling  between  relatives,  and  goodness  knows  what  else 
I  said ! 

The  result  was  that  I  met  the  Baroness,  as  if  by  accident, 
on  leaving  the  library  at  my  usual  time.  She  stopped  me 
on  the  North  Bridge,  and  we  walked  together  through 
one  of  the  avenues  leading  to  Charles  XII  Square. 
Almost  with  tears  in  her  eyes  she  entreated  me  to  come 
back,  not  to  ask  for  explanations,  but  just  to  be  one  of 
them  again  as  in  the  old  days. 

She  was  charming  this  morning.  But  I  loved  her  too 
dearly  to  compromise  her. 

"  Leave  me !  You  are  ruining  your  reputation,"  I 
said,  watching  the  passers-by,  whose  curious  glances 
embarrassed  us.  "  Go  home  at  once,  or  I  shall  leave  you 
standing  here !  " 

She  looked  at  me  with  eyes  so  full  of  misery  that  I 
longed  to  kneel  down  before  her,  kiss  her  feet  and  ask 
her  forgiveness. 

But  instead  I  turned  my  back  on  her  and  hastily  dis- 
appeared down  a  side  street. 

After  dinner  I  went  home  to  my  attic,  glowing  with 
the  satisfaction  of  a  duty  done,  but  with  a  broken  heart. 
Her  eyes  haunted  me. 

A  short  rest  gave  me  back  my  determination.  I  rose 
and  looked  at  the  almanac  which  hung  on  the  wall.  It 
was  the  thirteenth  of  March.  "  Beware  the  Ides  of 
March ! "  These  famous  words,  which  Shakespeare 
quotes  in  his  Julius  Ccesar,  sounded  in  my  ears  as  the 
servant  entered,  bringing  me  a  note  from  the  Baron. 

In  it  he  begged  me  to  spend  a  lonely  evening  with  him, 
saying  that  his  wife  was  not  well  and  that  Matilda  was 
going  out. 

I  had  not  the  nerve  to  refuse,  and  so  I  went. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  107 

The  Baroness,  more  dead  than  alive,  met  me  in  the 
drawing-room,  pressed  my  hand  against  her  heart  and 
thanked  me  warmly  for  having  resolved  not  to  rob  her 
of  a  friend,  a  brother,  for  the  sake  of  a  mere  nothing,  a 
misunderstanding. 

"  I  really  think  she's  going  out  of  her  mind,"  laughed 
the  Baron,  releasing  me  from  her  hands. 

"  I  am  mad,  I  know,  mad  with  joy  that  our  friend  has 
come  back  to  us  after  he  had  decided  to  leave  us  for  ever." 

And  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  She's  been  suffering  a  great  deal,"  explained  her 
husband,  disconcerted  by  this  scene. 

And,  indeed,  she  looked  as  if  she  were  in  a  high  fever. 
A  sombre  fire  burned  in  her  eyes,  which  seemed  to  take 
up  half  of  the  little  face;  her  cheeks  were  of  a  greenish 
pallor.  The  sight  of  her  hurt  me.  Her  frail  body  was 
shaken  by  fits  of  coughing. 

Her  uncle  and  father-in-law  arrived  unexpectedly. 
The  fuel  in  the  great  stove  was  replenished,  and  we  sat 
down  before  the  fire,  without  lighting  the  lamps,  to  enjoy 
the  cosy  hour  of  the  gathering  twilight. 

She  took  a  seat  by  my  side,  while  the  three  men  began 
to  talk  politics. 

I  saw  her  eyes  shine  through  the  dusk,  I  felt  the  warmth 
which  radiated  from  her  body. 

Her  skirts  brushed  against  me,  she  leaned  over  to  say 
something  meant  for  me  alone,  and  attacked  me  with  a 
whispered  question — 

"  Do  you  believe  in  love?  " 

"  No!  " 

My  "  no  "  struck  her  like  a  blow,  for  I  had  at  the  same 
time  jumped  up  and  changed  my  seat. 

She  must  be  mad,  I  thought;  and  afraid  of  a  scene  I 
suggested  that  we  should  have  the  lamps  lighted. 

During  supper  uncle  and  father-in-law  discussed  cousin 


108  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Matilda  to  their  heart's  content,  praising  her  domesticity, 
her  skill  in  needlework.  The  Baron,  who  had  drunk 
several  glasses  of  punch,  burst  out  into  extravagant 
eulogies  and  deplored,  with  alcoholic  tears,  the  unkind 
treatment  to  which  the  "dear  child"  was  subjected  at 
home.  But  when  apparently  in  the  very  depth  of  sympa- 
thetic sorrow,  he  suddenly  pulled  out  his  watch  and 
prepared  to  leave  us,  as  if  called  away  by  the  stern  voice 
of  duty. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
have  promised  Baby  to  meet  her  and  see  her  home.  Don't 
let  me  disturb  you,  I  shall  be  back  in  an  hour." 

The  old  Baron,  his  father,  vainly  tried  to  detain  him; 
his  artful  son  insisted  on  keeping  his  word  and  slipped 
away,  after  having  extracted  a  promise  from  me  to  await 
his  return. 

We  remained  at  table  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour 
and  then  went  into  the  drawing-room;  the  two  old 
gentlemen  soon  left  us  and  retired  to  the  uncle's  room, 
which  the  nephew  had  fitted  up  for  him  a  little  while 
ago. 

I  cursed  fate  for  having  caught  me  in  a  trap  which  I 
had  done  my  utmost  to  avoid.  I  steeled  my  throbbing 
heart;  proudly,  as  a  cock  raises  his  comb,  I  raised  my 
head;  my  hair  bristled  like  the  hair  of  a  sheep  dog,  and  I 
determined  to  crush  at  the  outset  any  attempt  to  create 
a  tearful  or  amorous  scene. 

Leaning  against  the  stove  I  smoked  my  cigar,  silent, 
cold  and  stiflF,  awaiting  events. 

The  Baroness  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Why  do  you  hate  me?  " 

"  I  don't  hate  you." 

"  Remember  how  you  treated  me  only  this  morning !  " 

"  Please,  don't  speak  of  it !  " 

The   unaccustomed   rudeness   of   my   replies,   for   which 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  109 

there  was  no  adequate  reason,  was  a  strategical  error. 
She  saw  through  me  and  changed  her  tactics. 

"  You  wanted  to  run  away  from  me,"  she  continued. 
"  Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  suddenly  went  to  Mariafred?  " 

"  Probably  for  the  same  reason  for  which  I  decided  to 
go  to   Paris." 

"  Then  .  .  .  it's  clear,"  she  said. 

"  And  now.''  " 

I  expected  a  scene.  But  she  remained  calm  and 
regarded  me  mournfully.  I  had  to  break  the  silence 
which  was  fraught  with  more  danger  than  any  words  could 
possibly  contain. 

"  Now  that  you  know  my  secret,"  I  said,  "  let  me  give 
you  a  word  of  warning.  If  you  want  me  to  come  here 
occasionally,  you  mustn't  ever  lose  your  head.  My  love 
for  you  is  of  such  an  exalted  nature,  that  I  could  live 
contentedly  at  your  side,  without  any  other  wish  but  to 
see  you.  If  you  should  ever  forget  your  duty,  if  you 
should  betray  by  as  much  as  a  look  the  secret  which  lies 
locked  in  our  hearts,  then  I  shall  confess  everything  to 
your  husband,  come  what  will !  " 

Carried  away  by  my  words,  full  of  enthusiasm,  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  heaven. 

"  I  swear  it  to  you !  .  .  .  How  strong  and  good  you 
are !  .  .  .  How  I  admire  you !  Oh !  but  I'm  ashamed ! 
I  should  like  to  surpass  your  honesty  .  .  .  shall  I  tell 
Gustav  everything.''  " 

"  If  you  like  .  .  .  but  then  we  shall  never  meet  again. 
After  all,  it's  not  his  business.  The  feelings  which 
animate  my  heart  are  not  criminal;  and  even  if  he  knew 
everything,  would  it  be  in  his  power  to  kill  my  love! 
No!  That  I  love  the  woman  of  my  choice  is  my  own 
affair  as  long  as  my  passion  does  not  infringe  the  rights 
of  another.  However,  do  as  you  please.  I  am  prepared 
for  anything !  " 


110  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"No,  no!  He  must  know  nothing;  and  since  he  per- 
mits himself  every  licence " 

"  There  I  don't  agree  with  you !  The  cases  are  not 
identical.  If  he  chooses  to  degrade  himself,  so  much  the 
worse  for  him.     But  that's  no  reason  why " 

"  No,  no!  .  .   ." 

The  ecstasy  was  over.     We  had  come  back  to  earth. 

"  No !  No ! "  I  repeated.  "  And  don't  you  agree 
that  it's  beautiful,  new,  almost  unique — to  love,  to  tell 
one  another  of  it.   .   .   .  Nothing  else !  " 

"  It's  as  beautiful  as  a  romance,"  she  cried,  clapping 
her  hands  like  a  child. 

"  But  it  doesn't  generally  happen  like  that  in  fiction !  " 

"  And  how  good  it  is  to  remain  honest !  " 

"The  only  thing  to  do!" 

"  And  we  shall  always  meet  as  before,  without 
fear " 

"  And  without  reproach " 

"  And  without  misunderstandings !  And  you  are  sure 
that  Matilda  is  nothing " 

"Oh!  hush!" 

The  door  opened.  How  commonplace!  The  two  old 
gentlemen  crossed  the  drawing-room  carrying  a  dark 
lantern. 

"  Notice  how  life  is  a  medley  of  petty  troubles  and 
divine  moments!"  I  said  to  her;  "notice  how  reality 
differs  from  fiction.  Could  I  dare  to  draw  a  scene  like 
this  in  a  novel  or  a  drama  without  being  accused  of  being 
humdrum?  Just  think — a  confession  of  love  without 
kisses,  genuflexions  or  protestations,  terminated  by  the 
appearance  of  two  old  men  throwing  the  light  of  a  dark 
lantern  on  the  lovers !  And  yet  therein  lies  the  secret  of 
Shakespeare's  greatness,  who  shows  us  Julius  Caesar  in 
dressing-gown  and  slippers,  starting  from  his  sleep  at 
night,  frightened  by  childish  dreams." 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  111 

The  bell  rang.  The  Baron  and  pretty  Matilda  were 
returning  home.  As  he  had  a  guilty  conscience,  he  over- 
whelmed us  with  amiability.  And  I,  eager  to  show 
myself  in  my  new  part,  told  him  a  barefaced  lie. 

"  I've  been  quarrelling  with  the  Baroness  for  the  last 
hour ! " 

He  gave  us  a  scrutinising  look,  full  of  vindictiveness, 
and  scenting  the  air  like  a  hound,  seemed  to  catch  the 
wrong  scent. 


IX 

What  unparalleled  guilelessness  it  argues  to  believe 
that  there  could  be  love  without  passion !  There  was 
danger  even  in  the  secret  which  existed  between  us.  It 
was  like  a  child  conceived  in  secrecy,  it  grew  and  strove  to 
see  the  light. 

Our  longing  to  meet  and  compare  notes  increased;  we 
yearned  to  live  again  through  the  last  year  in  which  we 
had  been  trying  to  deceive  one  another.  We  resorted  to 
all  kinds  of  trickery.  I  introduced  the  Baroness  to  my 
sister,  who,  having  married  the  head-master  of  a  school, 
a  man  with  an  old,  aristocratic  name,  in  a  way  belonged 
to  her  set. 

We  often  met  by  appointment;  our  meetings  were 
harmless  to  begin  with,  but  after  a  while  passion  sprang 
up  and  desire  awoke. 

In  the  first  days  following  our  mutual  confession,  she 
gave  me  a  packet  of  letters,  written  partly  before,  partly 
after  the  thirteenth  of  March.  These  letters,  into  which 
she  had  poured  all  her  sorrow,  all  her  love,  had  never 
been  intended  to  reach  me. 

"  Monday. 

"  My  Dear  Friend, 

"  I  am  longing  to  see  you,  to-day  as  always.  I 
want  to  thank  you  for  listening  to  me  yesterday  without 
that  sarcastic  smile  with  which  it  is  now  your  rule  to 
regard  me!  I  turn  to  you  trustfully,  at  a  moment  when 
I  am  in  dire  need  of  your  friendship,  and  you  cover  your 
face  with  a  mask.    Why?    Is  it  necessary  that  you  should 

112 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  113 

disguise  your  feelings?  You  have  yourself  admitted  in 
one  of  your  letters  that  it  is  a  mask.  I  hope  it  is,  I  can 
see  it  is,  and  yet  it  hurts  me,  for  it  makes  me  think 
that  I  have  committed  a  fault  of  some  sort  .  .  .  and  I 
wonder:  What  is  he  thinking  of  me? 

"  I  am  jealous  of  your  friendship;  I  am  afraid  that  some 
day  you  might  despise  me.  Tell  me  that  it  will  never  hap- 
pen !  You  must  be  good  and  loyal  to  me.  You  must  forget 
that  I  am  a  woman — don't  I  only  too  often  forget  it  myself ! 

"  I  was  not  angry  with  you  for  what  you  said  yesterday, 
but  it  surprised  and  pained  me.  Do  you  really  believe 
me  capable  of  wanting  to  excite  my  husband's  jealousy  for 
the  sake  of  taking  a  mean  revenge?  Think  of  the  danger 
to  which  I  should  expose  myself  if  I  attempted  to  win  him 
back  through  jealousy!  What  should  I  gain?  His 
anger  would  fall  upon  your  head,  and  we  should  for  ever 
be  separated !  And  what  would  become  of  me  without 
you,  who  are  dearer  to  me  than  life! 

"  I  love  you  with  a  sister's  tenderness,  not  with  the 
whims  of  a  coquette.  .  .  .  It  is  true  that  I  have  known 
moments  when  I  longed,  when  it  would  have  been  heaven, 
to  take  your  head  into  my  hands,  to  look  deep  into  your 
dear  eyes,  so  full  of  wisdom;  and  I  am  sure  I  should  have 
kissed  you  on  your  forehead,  but  never  in  your  life  would 
you  have  received  a  purer  kiss. 

"  I  am  not  responsible  for  my  affectionate  temperament, 
and  if  you  were  a  woman,  I  should  love  you  just  as  much, 
provided  that  I  could  respect  a  woman  as  highly  as  I 
respect  you.     .     .     . 

"  Your  opinion  of  Matilda  makes  me  very  happy.  One 
has  to  be  a  woman  to  be  pleased  about  such  a  thing. 
But  what  am  I  to  do?  Think  of  my  position  in  case 
everybody  sided  with  her!  And  I  am  to  blame  for  what- 
ever happens.  I  encouraged  this  flirtation  because  I 
considered  it  no  more  serious  than  a  child's  game.     Feel- 


114  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

ing  sure  of  his   affection,  I   allowed  my  husband  perfect 
liberty.    The  consequences  have  proved  my  error.     .     .     ." 

"  Wednesday. 
"  He  is  in  love  with  her  and  has  told  me  so.  The 
matter  has  surpassed  all  limits,  and  I  have  laughed  at  it. 
.  .  .  Think :  after  seeing  you  to  the  door,  he  came  back 
to  me,  took  my  hands,  looked  into  my  face — I  trembled, 
for  my  conscience  was  not  clear — and  said  entreatingly : 
'Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Marie!  I  love  Matilda!' 
What  was  I  to  do.f*  Should  I  cry  or  laugh?  And  he 
confessed  this  to  me,  to  me  who  am  tormented  by 
remorse,  forced  to  love  you  from  afar,  hopelessly!  Oh, 
these  stupid  ideas  of  honour !  How  senseless  they  are ! 
Let  him  indulge  his  passion!  You  are  my  dear  love,  and 
my  woman's  heart  shall  never  get  the  better  of  me  and 
make  me  forget  my  duties  as  a  wife  and  mother.  But 
.  .  .  notice  the  conflicting  double  nature  of  my  feelings 
I  love  you  both,  and  I  could  never  live  without  him, 
the  brave,  honest  friend  of  my  heart  .  .  .  nor  without 
you  either." 

"  Friday. 

"  At  last  you  have  lifted  the  veil  which  for  so  long  has 
hidden  the  secret  of  my  heart.  And  you  don't  despise 
me !  Merciful  God !  You  even  love  me.  You  have 
spoken  the  words  which  you  had  determined  to  leave  for 
ever  unspoken.  You  love  me!  And  I  am  a  guilty 
woman,  a  criminal,  because  I  love  you  in  return.  May 
God  forgive  me!  For  I  love  him  too,  and  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  leaving  him. 

"  How  strange  it  is !  .  .  .  To  be  loved !  Loved 
tenderly!  By  him  and  by  you!  I  feel  so  happy,  so 
calm,  that  my  love  cannot  possibly  be  a  crime !  Surely 
I  should  feel  remorse  if  it  were — or  am  I  so  hardened? 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  115 

"  How  ashamed  I  am  of  myself !  It  was  I  who  had  to 
speak  the  first  word  of  love.  My  husband  is  here,  he  puts 
his  arms  round  me,  and  I  let  him  kiss  me.  Am  I  sincere.'' 
Yes !  Why  did  he  not  take  care  of  me  while  there  was 
yet  time.'' 

"  The  whole  is  like  a  novel.  What  will  be  the  end  ? 
Will  the  heroine  die?  Will  the  hero  marry  another? 
Will  they  be  separated?  And  will  the  end  be  satisfactory 
from  a  moral  point  of  view? 

"  If  I  were  with  you  at  this  moment,  I  should  kiss  your 
brow  with  the  same  devotion  with  which  the  devotee  kisses 
the  crucifix,  and  I  should  put  from  me  all  baseness,  all 
artificiality.     .     .     ." 

Was  this  hypocrisy,  or  did  I  deceive  myself?  Were 
they  nothing  but  passion,  these  semi-religious  ecstasies? 
No,  not  passion  only.  The  desire  of  propagation  has 
become  more  complicated,  and  even  with  the  lower  animals 
moral  characteristics  are  transmitted  through  sexual  love. 
Therefore  love  affects  both  body  and  soul,  and  one  is 
nothing  without  the  other.  If  it  were  but  passion,  why 
should  she  prefer  a  delicate,  nervous,  sickly  youth  to  a 
giant  like  him?  If  it  were  only  the  love  of  the  soul, 
why  this  longing  to  kiss  me,  why  this  admiration  for  my 
small  feet,  my  well-shaped  hands  and  nails,  my  intellectual 
forehead,  my  abundant  hair?  Or  were  those  hallucina- 
tions caused  by  the  intoxication  of  her  senses,  excited  by 
her  husband's  excesses?  Or  did  she  feel  instinctively  that 
an  ardent  youth  like  me  would  make  her  far  more  happy 
than  the  inert  mass  which  she  called  her  husband?  She 
was  no  longer  jealous  of  his  body,  therefore  she  had  ceased 
looking  upon  him  in  the  light  of  a  lover.  But  she  was 
jealous  of  my  person,  and  therefore  she  was  in  love  with 
me!     .     .     . 

One  day,   when   visiting  my   sister,   the   Baroness   was 


116  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

seized  with  an  attack  of  hysterics.  She  threw  herself  on 
the  sofa  and  burst  into  tears,  infuriated  with  the  disgrace- 
ful conduct  of  her  husband,  who  was  spending  the  evening 
with  Matilda  at  a  regimental  ball. 

In  a  passionate  outburst  she  threw  her  arms  round  me 
and  kissed  me  on  the  forehead.  I  returned  kiss  for  kiss. 
She  called  me  by  endearing  names. 

The  bond  between  us  was  growing  stronger  and  my 
passion  was  increasing. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  I  recited  Longfellow's 
"  Excelsior  "  to  her.  Genuinely  touched  by  this  beauti- 
ful poem,  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  her,  and  as  if  she  were 
hypnotised,  her  face  reflected  every  shade  of  feeling 
expressed  on  my  own.  She  had  the  appearance  of  an 
ecstatic,  of  a  seer. 

After  supper  her  maid  called  for  her  with  a  cab  to  take 
her  home.  I  meant  to  come  no  further  with  her  than 
the  street,  but  she  insisted  on  my  getting  into  the  cab, 
and  in  spite  of  my  protestations  she  ordered  her  maid  to 
sit  on  the  box,  by  the  side  of  the  driver.  As  soon  as  I 
was  alone  with  her  I  took  her  in  my  arms,  silently,  with- 
out a  word.  I  felt  her  delicate  body  thrill  and  yield 
under  my  kisses.  But  I  shrank  from  crime — and  left  her 
at  her  door,  unhurt,  ashamed  of  herself  and,  perhaps, 
also  a  little  angry. 

I  no  longer  had  any  doubts  now;  I  saw  clearly.  She 
was  trying  to  tempt  me.  It  was  she  who  had  given  the 
first  kiss,  she  who  had  taken  the  initiative  in  everything. 
From  this  moment  I  was  going  to  play  the  part  of  the 
tempter,  for,  although  a  man  of  firm  principles  on  the 
point  of  honour,  I  was  by  no  means  a  Joseph. 

On  the  following  day  we  met  at  the  National  Museum. 

How  I  adored  her  as  I  saw  her  coming  up  the  marble 
staircase,  under  the  gilded  ceiling,  as  I  watched  her  little 
feet   tripping    over    the    flags    of    variegated    stucco,    her 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  117 

aristocratic  figure  clothed  in  a  black  velvet  costume, 
trimmed  with  military  braid.  I  hurried  to  meet  her  and, 
like  a  page,  bent  my  knees  before  her.  Her  beauty, 
which  had  blossomed  under  my  kisses,  was  striking.  The 
rich  blood  in  her  veins  shone  through  her  transparent 
cheeks:  this  statue,  almost  the  statue  of  an  old  maid,  had 
quickened  under  my  caresses,  and  grown  warm  at  the  fire 
of  life.  Pygmalion  had  breathed  on  the  marble  and  held 
a  goddess  in  his  arms. 

We  sat  down  before  a  statue  of  Psyche,  acquired  in  the 
Thirty  Years'  War.  I  kissed  her  cheeks,  her  eyes,  her 
lips,  and  she  received  my  kisses  with  a  rapturous  smile. 
I  played  the  tempter,  employing  all  the  sophisms  of  the 
orator,  all  the  arts  of  the  poet. 

"  I  entreat  you,"  I  said,  "  leave  your  polluted  house ; 
don't  consent  any  longer  to  live  this  life  of  three — or 
you'll  force  me  to  despise  you.  Return  to  your  mother, 
devote  yourself  to  art ;  in  a  year  you  will  be  able  to  appear 
before  the  footlights.  Then  you  will  be  free  to  live  your 
own  life." 

She  added  fuel  to  the  fire;  I  became  more  and  more 
incensed  and  warmed  to  my  subject.  I  deluged  her  with 
a  flood  of  words,  the  object  of  which  was  to  extract  a 
promise  from  her  to  tell  her  husband  everything,  for  then, 
I  argued,  we  should  no  longer  be  responsible  for  the 
consequences. 

"  But  supposing  things  end  badly  for  us  ? "  she 
interposed. 

"  Even  if  we  should  lose  everything !  I  could  no 
longer  love  you  if  I  could  no  longer  respect  both  of  us. 
Are  you  a  toward?  Do  you  crave  the  reward  and  refuse 
to  bring  the  sacrifice?  Be  as  noble  as  you  are  beautiful, 
dare  the  fatal  leap,  even  at  the  risk  of  perishing!  Let 
everything  be  lost  save  our  honour!  If  we  go  on  like 
this,  we  shall  both  be  guilty  in  a  very  short  time,  for  my 


118  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

love  is  like  lightning,  which  will  strike  you!  I  love  you 
as  the  sun  loves  the  dew — to  drink  it.  Therefore,  quick 
to  the  scaffold !  Sacrifice  your  head  so  that  you  may  keep 
your  hands  clean!  Don't  imagine  that  I  could  ever 
debase  myself  and  be  content  to  share  you  with  a  third, 
never,  never !  " 

She  feigned  resistance,  but  in  reality  she  threw  a  grain 
of  powder  into  the  open  flames.  She  complained  of  her 
husband  and  hinted  at  things,  the  very  thought  of  which 
made  my  blood  boil. 

He,  the  numskull,  poor  as  myself,  without  prospects, 
indulged  in  the  luxury  of  two  mistresses,  while  I,  the  man 
of  talent,  the  aristocrat  of  the  future,  sighed  and  writhed 
under  the  torture  of  my  unsatisfied  longings. 

But  all  of  a  sudden  she  veered  round  and  tried  to  calm 
my  excited  nerves  by  reminding  me  of  our  agreement  to 
be  brother  and  sister. 

"  No,  not  that  dangerous  game  of  brother  and  sister ! 
Let  us  be  man  and  woman,  lover  and  beloved !  This 
alone  is  worthy  of  ourselves !  I  adore  you !  I  adore 
everything  belonging  to  you,  body  and  soul,  your  golden 
hair  and  your  straightforwardness,  the  smallest  feet  that 
ever  wore  shoes  in  Sweden,  your  candour,  your  eyes  which 
shine  in  the  dusk,  your  bewitching  smile,  your  white  stock- 
ing and  your  cherry-coloured  garter. 

"What.?" 

"Yes,  my  lovely  princess,  I  have  seen  everything! 
And  now  I  want  to  kiss  your  throat  and  the  dimples  on 
your  shoulders ;  I  will  smother  you  with  my  kisses,  strangle 
you  between  my  arms  as  with  a  necklet.  My  love  for  you 
fills  me  with  the  strength  of  a  god.  Did  you  think  me 
delicate.''  I  was  an  imaginary  invalid,  or,  rather,  I  pre- 
tended to  be  ill !  Beware  of  the  sick  lion !  Don't  come 
near  his  den  or  he  will  kill  you  with  his  caresses !  Down 
with  the  dishonest  mask!     I   want  you  and  I  will  have 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  119 

you!  I've  wanted  you  from  the  first  moment  I  set  eyes 
on  you!  The  story  of  Selma,  the  Finlander,  is  nothing 
but  a  fairy  tale  .  .  .  the  friendship  of  our  dear  Baron  a 
lie  ...  he  loathes  me,  the  man  of  the  middle-classes, 
the  provincial,  the  declasse,  as  I  loathe  him,  the 
aristocrat!  " 

This  avalanche  of  revelations  excited  her  very  little, 
for  it  told  her  nothing  new:  she  had  been  aware  of  it 
without  my  avowal. 

And  we  separated  with  the  firm  resolution  not  to  meet 
again  until  she  had  told  her  husband  everything. 

I  spent  the  evening  at  home,  anxious  and  uneasy,  wait- 
ing for  telegrams  from  the  seat  of  war.  To  distract  my 
thoughts,  I  emptied  a  sack  containing  old  books  and 
papers  on  the  floor,  and  sat  down  among  this  litter  to 
examine  and  classify  it.  But  I  foimd  it  impossible  to 
concentrate  my  thoughts  on  my  task;  I  stretched  myself 
out  at  full  length,  resting  the  back  of  my  head  on  my 
hands  and,  my  eyes  fixed  with  a  hypnotic  stare  on  the 
candles  burning  in  the  old  chandelier,  I  lost  myself  in  a 
reverie.  I  was  longing  for  her  kisses,  and  thinking  out 
plans  of  making  her  my  own.  As  she  was  sensitive  and 
strange,  I  felt  that  the  utmost  delicacy  would  be  neces- 
sary, that  I  must  allow  matters  to  arrange  themselves; 
that  a  single  clumsy  movement  would  spoil  everything. 

I  lighted  a  cigarette  and  imagined  that  I  was  lying  in 
a  meadow;  it  amused  me  to  view  my  little  room  from 
below.  Everything  seemed  new  to  me.  The  sofa,  the 
witness  of  many  pleasant  hours,  brought  me  back  to  my 
dreams  of  love,  which,  however,  were  quickly  paralysed 
by  the  fear  that  happiness  would  be  wrecked  on  the  rocks 
of  my  uncompromising  principles. 

Analysing  the  thought  which  had  checked  my  ardour, 
I  discovered  in  it  a  great  deal  of  cowardice,  fear  of  the 


120  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

consequences,  a  little  sympathy  with  the  man  who  stood 
in  danger  of  being  betrayed,  a  little  disgust  with  the 
unclean  pell-mell;  a  little  genuine  respect  for  the  woman 
whom  I  could  not  bear  to  see  degrading  herself;  a  little 
pity  with  the  daughter,  a  mere  nothing  of  compassion  with 
the  mother  of  my  beloved,  in  case  of  a  scandal;  and  quite 
in  the  background  of  my  miserable  heart  a  vague  presenti- 
ment of  the  difficulty  I  should  find  later  on,  if  ever  I  should 
wish  to  sever  our  connection. 

"  No,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  all  or  nothing!  She  must  be 
mine  alone,  and  for  ever !  " 

While  I  was  thus  musing,  there  came  a  gentle  tapping 
at  my  door,  and  almost  simultaneously  a  lovely  head 
appeared  in  the  opening,  flooding  my  attic  with  sunshine, 
and  with  its  roguish  smile  drawing  me  away  from  my 
papers  into  the  arms  of  my  beloved.  After  a  hailstorm 
of  kisses  on  her  lips,  which  were  fresh  with  the  cold  out- 
side, I  asked — 

"  Well,  what  has  he  decided  to  do?  " 

"  Nothing !     I  haven't  told  him  yet !  " 

"  Then  you  are  lost!     Flee,  unhappy  woman!  " 

And  keeping  firm  hold  of  her,  I  took  off  her  close- 
fitting  fur  coat,  removed  her  beaded  hat  and  drew  her  to 
the  fire.     Then  she  found  words. 

"  I  hadn't  the  courage.  ...  I  wanted  to  see  you 
once  again  before  the  catastrophe,  for  God  knows,  he  may 
decide  to  divorce  me. 

I  closed  her  lips  with  mine,  pushed  a  little  table  to  her 
seat  and  brought  from  my  cupboard  a  bottle  of  good  wine 
and  two  glasses.  By  the  side  of  them  I  set  a  basket  with 
roses  and  two  lighted  candles,  arranging  everything  in  the 
manner  of  an  altar.  For  a  footstool  I  gave  her  a  priceless 
old  edition  of  Hans  Sachs,  bound  in  calf,  furnished  with 
gold  locks  and  ornamented  with  a  portrait  of  Luther.  I 
had  borrowed  the  book  from  the  Royal  Library. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  121 

I  poured  out  some  wine.  I  gathered  a  rose  and  fastened 
it  in  the  golden  thicket  of  her  hair.  My  lips  touched  the 
glass  raised  to  drink  to  her  health,  to  our  love.  I  knelt 
down  before  her  and  worshipped  her. 

"  How  beautiful  you  are !  " 

For  the  first  time  she  saw  me  as  a  lover.  She  was  de- 
lighted. She  took  my  head  between  her  hands,  kissed  it 
and  smoothed  with  her  fingers  the  tangled  strains  of  my 
unruly  hair. 

Her  beauty  filled  me  with  respect.  I  looked  at  her 
with  veneration,  as  one  looks  at  the  statue  of  a  saint. 
She  was  enchanted  to  see  me  without  the  hated  mask;  my 
words  intoxicated  her,  and  she  was  filled  with  delirious 
joy  when  she  found  that  my  love  for  her  was  at  once 
tender,  respectful  and  full  of  ardour. 

I  kissed  her  shoes,  blackening  my  lips;  I  embraced  her 
knees  without  touching  the  hem  of  her  dress;  I  loved  her 
just  as  she  was,  fully  dressed,  chaste  as  an  angel,  as  if 
she  had  been  born  clothed,  with  wings  outside  her  dress. 

Suddenly  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes,  I  could  not  have 
said  why. 

"  Are  you  crying.''  "  she  asked.     "  What  is  the  matter?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    I'm  too  happy,  that's  all." 

"  You,  capable  of  tears !     You,  the  man  of  iron !  " 

"  Alas !     I  know  tears  only  too  well !  " 

Being  a  woman  of  experience,  she  imagined  that  she 
possessed  the  secret  remedy  for  my  secret  sorrow. 

She  rose  from  the  sofa  and  pretended  to  be  interested 
in  the  papers  scattered  about  on  the  floor. 

"  You  seemed  to  be  stretched  out  on  the  grass  when  I 
came  in,"  she  said,  smiling  archly.  "  What  fun  to  make 
hay  in  the  middle  of  the  winter !  " 

She  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  papers;  I  threw  myself  down 
beside  her.  Another  hailstorm  of  kisses,  the  goddess 
stooped  towards  me,  ready  to  surrender. 


122  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Gradually  I  drew  her  closer  to  me,  holding  her  captive 
with  my  lips,  so  as  not  to  give  her  time  to  break  the  spell 
my  eyes  had  cast  over  her,  and  free  herself.  We  sat  on 
the  "  grass  "  like  lovers,  yielding  to  our  passion  like  fully 
dressed  angels,  and  rose  up  content,  happy,  without  re- 
morse, like  angels  who  have  not  fallen. 

Love  is  inventive!  We  had  sinned  without  sinning, 
yielded  without  surrendering.  How  precious  is  the  love 
of  a  woman  of  experience!  She  is  merciful  to  the  young 
apprentice;  she  finds  her  pleasure  in  giving,  not  in 
receiving. 

Suddenly  she  recovered  her  senses,  remembered  the 
claims  of  reality  and  prepared  to  go. 

"  Until  to-morrow,  then !  " 

"  Until  to-morrow !  " 


He  had  been  told  everything,  and  she  called  herself 
guilty,  for  he  had  wept.  He  had  wept  scalding  tears! 
Was  it  simplicity  or  artfulness  on  his  part?  Doubtless 
both.  Love  and  delusion  are  inseparable,  and  it  is  difficult 
to  know  ourselves  as  we  really  are. 

But  he  was  not  angry  with  us,  and  did  not  insist  on 
separating  us,  on  condition  that  we  should  respect  his 
good  name. 

"  He  is  more  noble  and  generous  than  we  are,"  she  said 
in  her  letter,  "  and  he  still  loves  both  of  us." 

What  a  milksop !  He  consented  to  receive  in  his  house 
a  man  who  had  kissed  his  wife ;  he  believed  us  to  be  sexless, 
able  to  live  side  by  side,  like  brother  and  sister. 

It  was  an  insult  to  my  manhood;  henceforth  he  had 
ceased  to  exist  for  me. 

I  stayed  at  home,  a  prey  to  the  bitterest  disappointment. 
I  had  tasted  the  apple,  and  it  had  been  snatched  from  me. 
My  imperious  love  had  repented;  she  was  suffering  from 
remorse;  she  overwhelmed  me  with  reproaches — she,  the 
temptress !  A  fiendish  idea  flashed  through  my  mind. 
Had  I  been  too  reserved.''  Did  she  want  to  break  with  me 
because  I  had  been  too  timid.'*  Since  the  thought  of  the 
crime  from  which  I  shrank  had  not  seemed  to  disturb  her, 
her  passion  must  be  stronger  than  mine.  .  .  .  But 
come  back  to  me  once  more,  my  love,  and  I  will  teach  you 
better. 

At  ten  o'clock  I  received  a  letter  from  the  Baron,  in 
which  he  said  that  his  wife  was  seriously  ill. 

My  reply  was  a  request  to  be  left  in  peace.     "  I  have 

123 


124  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

been  long  enough  the  cause  of  unpleasantness  between  you ; 
forget  me,  as  I  will  forget  you." 

Towards  noon  a  second  letter  arrived: 

"  Let  us  once  more  revive  our  old  friendship.  I  have 
always  respected  you,  and,  in  spite  of  your  error,  I  am 
convinced  that  you  have  behaved  like  a  man  of  honour. 
Let  us  bury  the  past.  Come  back  to  me  as  a  brother, 
and  the  matter  will  be  forgotten." 

The  pathetic  simplicity,  the  perfect  confidence  of  the 
man  touched  me;  in  my  reply  I  mentioned  my  misgivings, 
and  begged  him  not  to  play  with  fire,  but  leave  me  in 
future  unmolested. 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  I  received  a  last  com- 
munication: the  Baroness  was  dying;  the  doctor  had  just 
left  her;  she  had  asked  for  me.  The  Baron  entreated  me 
not  to  refuse  her  request,  and  I  went.     Poor  me ! 

I  entered.  The  room  smelt  of  chloroform.  The  Baron 
received  me  with  great  agitation  and  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  I  asked,  with  the  calmness  of  a 
doctor. 

"  I  don't  know.     But  she  has  been  at  death's  door." 

"  And  the  doctor,  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  shook  his  head  and  said  it  was  not  a  case  for  him." 

"  Has  he  given  her  a  prescription?  " 

"  No." 

He  took  me  into  the  dining-room,  which  had  been  trans- 
formed into  a  sick-room.  She  was  lying  on  a  couch,  stiflF, 
haggard ;  her  hair  was  falling  over  her  shoulders,  her  eyes 
glowed  like  red-hot  coals.  She  moved  her  hand,  and  her 
husband  put  it  into  mine.  Then  he  returned  into  the 
drawing-room  and  left  us  by  ourselves.  My  heart  re- 
mained unmoved;  I  did  not  trust  my  eyes;  the  unusual 
spectacle  roused  my  suspicions. 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  nearly  died  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  125 

"  And  you  don't  feel  sorry  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes!  " 

"  You  are  not  moved,  you  have  no  look  of  sympathy, 
no  look  of  commiseration." 

"  You  have  your  husband !  " 

"  Hasn't  he  himself  brought  us  together  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  suffering  from  ?  " 

"  I'm  very  ill.     I  shall  have  to  consult  a  specialist." 

"Oh!" 

"  I'm  afraid !  It's  terrible !  If  you  knew  how  I  have 
suffered !  .  .  .  Put  your  hand  on  my  head  ...  it 
does  me  good.  .  .  .  Now  smile  at  me  .  .  .  your 
smile  fills  me  with  new  life!     .     .     ." 

."  The  Baron " 

"  You  are  going?    You  are  leaving  me.''  " 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you?  " 

She  began  to  cry. 

"  You  surely  can't  want  me  to  play  the  lover  here,  close 
to  your  child,  your  husband?  " 

"  You  are  a  monster !    A  man  without  a  heart !    A " 

"  Good-bye,  Baroness !  " 

I  went.  The  Baron  accompanied  me  through  the  draw- 
ing-room, but,  quick  though  he  was,  he  could  not  prevent 
me  from  catching  sight  of  a  woman's  skirt  disappearing 
through  one  of  the  other  doors. 

This  awakened  the  suspicion  in  me  that  the  whole  had 
been  a  farce. 

The  Baron  closed  the  door  behind  me  with  a  bang  which 
echoed  through  the  staircase,  and  gave  me  the  impression 
that  I  had  been  kicked  out. 

I  felt  sure  that  I  had  not  been  mistaken.  I  had  assisted 
at  the  denoument  of  a  sentimental  play  with  a  double 
plot. 

This  mysterious  illness,  what  was  it?  Hysteria?  No. 
Science  has  given  it  the  name  of  "  nymphomania  " ;  freely 


126  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

translated  it  means,  the  desire  of  a  woman  for  children, 
moderated  and  disguised  by  time  and  the  conventions,  but 
suddenly  breaking  out  with  irresistible  force. 

This  woman,  always  living  in  a  state  of  semi-celibacy, 
unwilling  to  take  upon  herself  the  burden  of  motherhood, 
and  yet  dissatisfied  with  the  incompleteness  of  her  married 
life,  was  driven  into  the  arms  of  a  lover,  to  the  commission 
of  a  crime,  and,  at  the  very  moment  when  she  thought 
that  her  lover  was  incontestably  hers,  he  slipped  through 
her  fingers,  and  he,  too,  left  her  unsatisfied. 

How  miserable  a  mistake  was  matrimony !  How  pitiful 
a  passion  was  love ! 

When  I  had  finished  my  analysis  I  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  unsatisfactory  nature  of  their  relation- 
ship had  driven  both  husband  and  wife  to  seek  happiness 
elsewhere.  The  disappointment  at  my  flight  had  brought 
the  Baroness  back  into  the  arms  of  her  husband,  whose 
love  had  received  a  fresh  stimulus,  and  who  would  hence- 
forth strive  to  make  her  more  happy. 

They  were  reconciled,  and  everything  was  at  an  end. 

Exit  the  devil. 

The  curtain  falls. 

No,  it  was  not  at  an  end. 

She  visited  me  again  in  my  room,  and  I  drew  from  her 
a  full  confession,  brutal  in  its  candour. 

In  the  first  year  of  her  marriage  she  knew  nothing  of 
the  ecstasies  of  love.  After  her  baby  was  born,  her  hus- 
band grew  indifferent  to  her,  and  their  relations  became 
strained. 

"  Then  you've  never  been  happy  with  this  man  with  the 
physique  of  a  giant.''  " 

"  Never  .  .  ,  sometimes  perhaps  .  .  .  hardly  ever." 

"And  now?" 

She  blushed. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  127 

"  The  doctor  has  advised  him  not  to  go  on  sinning 
against  nature." 

She  sank  back  on  the  sofa  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Excited  by  these  intimate  confessions,  I  made  an  attempt 
to  put  my  arms  round  her.  She  offered  no  resistance,  she 
trembled  and  breathed  heavily,  but  suddenly  she  felt 
remorse  and  repulsed  me. 

Strange   enigma   which   was   beginning  to   provoke   me! 

What  did  she  want  from  me?  Everytliing!  But  she 
shrank  from  the  real  crime,  the  illegitimate  child. 

I  took  her  in  my  arms  and  kissed  her,  I  tried  to  rouse  her 
passion.  She  freed  herself  and  left  me,  but,  I  thought,  a 
shade  less  disappointed  than  before. 

And  now,  what.'' 

Confess  to  the  husband?     It  has  been  done. 

Give  him  details?     .     .     .     There  are  no  details  to  give. 

She  continued  to  visit  me. 

And  whenever  she  came,  she  sat  down  on  the  sofa  on  the 
plea  of  fatigue. 

I  was  ashamed  of  my  timidity;  furious  at  my  humilia- 
tion ;  afraid  that  she  might  think  me  a  fool ;  conflicting 
emotions  wore  away  my  self-control,  and  the  day  came 
when  I  watched  her  from  my  window,  walking  away  slowly, 
until  she  was  hidden  by  the  turn  of  the  street.  I  sighed 
heavily. 

The  son  of  the  people  had  carried  off  the  white  skin, 
the  plebeian  had  won  the  aristocrat,  the  swineherd  had 
mated  with  the  princess!     But  he  had  paid  a  heavy  price. 

A  storm  was  brewing.     All  sorts  of  rumours  circulated 
in  the  town.     The  fair  fame  of  the  Baroness  had  suffered. 
Her  mother  asked  me  to  call  on  her.     I  went. 
"  Is  it  true  that  you  are  in  love  with  my  daughter  ?  " 
"  It  is  true." 


128  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"And  are  you  not  ashamed?  " 

"  I  glory  in  it." 

"  She  has  told  me  that  she  loves  you." 

"  I  was  aware  of  that.  ...  I  am  sorry  for  you.  I 
regret  the  possible  consequences,  but  what  am  I  to  do? 
No  doubt  it  is  a  deplorable  business,  but  we  are  not  guilty, 
neither  she  nor  I.  When  we  discovered  our  danger,  we 
warned  the  Baron.    Wasn't  that  acting  correctly?  " 

"  I'm  not  complaining  of  your  conduct  now,  but  I  must 
protect  the  honour  of  my  daughter,  of  her  child,  of  the 
family !     Surely  you  don't  want  to  ruin  us  ?  " 

The  poor  old  woman  cried  bitterly.  She  had  put  all 
her  eggs  in  one  basket:  the  aristocratic  alliance  of  her 
daughter,  which  was  to  rehabilitate  her  own  family.  She 
roused  my  compassion,  and  I  succumbed  to  her  sorrow. 

"  Command  me,"  I  said ;  "  I  will  do  whatever  you  wish." 

"  Leave  this  place,  go  away  from  here,  I  implore  you." 

"  I  will  do  so,  but  on  one  condition." 

"And  that  is?" 

"  That  you  will  ask  Miss  Matilda  to  return  to  her 
family." 

"  Is  that  an  accusation  ?  " 

"  More  than  that,  a  denunciation.  For  I  believe  I'm 
right  in  saying  that  her  presence  at  the  Baron's  house  is 
not  conducive  to  happiness." 

"  I  agree  with  you.  Oh,  that  girl !  I  shall  tell  her 
what  I  think  of  her!  But  you,  you  will  leave  to- 
morrow ?  " 

"  To-night,  if  you  like." 

At  this  stage  the  Baroness  appeared,  and  unceremoni- 
ously interrupted  our  conversation. 

"  You  must  stay !  You  shall  stay !  "  she  said  impera- 
tively.    "  Matilda  must  go !  " 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  her  mother,  in  amazement. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  129 

"  Because  I  mean  to  have  a  divorce.  Gustav  has  treated 
me  like  an  abandoned  woman  before  Matilda's  step-father. 
I  shall  prove  to  them  that  they're  mistaken." 

What  a  heartrending  scene !  Is  there  a  surgical  opera- 
tion so  painful  as  the  tearing  asunder  of  family  ties.^ 
All  passions  are  let  loose,  all  uncleanness  hidden  in  the 
depth  of  the  soul  stands  revealed. 

The  Baroness  took  me  apart  and  repeated  to  me  the 
contents  of  a  letter  from  her  husband  to  Matilda:  abuse 
of  us,  and  an  assurance  of  his  undying  love  for  the  girl, 
in  terms  which  proved  that  he  had  deceived  us  from  the 
very  beginning. 

The  ball  has  now  gained  the  volume  of  a  rock;  it  goes 
on  rolling,  and  crushes  alike  the  innocent  and  the  guilty. 

In  spite  of  all  the  coming  and  going  a  settlement  seemed 
as  far  off  as  ever. 

Fresh  misfortunes  happened.  The  bank  did  not  pay  the 
ordinary  yearly  dividend;  ruin  was  menacing. 

The  threatening  poverty  was  made  the  pretext  for  the 
divorce,  for  the  Baron  could  no  longer  maintain  his  family. 
For  appearances'  sake  he  asked  his  colonel  whether  his 
wife's  proposed  theatrical  career  would  in  any  way  interfere 
with  his  own.  The  colonel  gave  him  to  understand  that 
if  his  wife  went  on  the  stage,  he  would  have  to  leave  the 
service.  A  splendid  opportunity  for  abusing  aristocratic 
prejudices! 

During  all  this  time  the  Baroness,  under  medical  treat- 
ment for  some  internal  trouble,  continued  to  live  at  her 
husband's  house,  although  they  were  now  practically 
separated.  She  was  always  in  pain,  irritable  and  despond- 
ent, and  I  found  it  impossible  to  rouse  her  from  her  deep 
depression;  my  strenuous  effort  to  inspire  her  with  some 
of  my  youthful  confidence  was  wasted.  In  vain  I  drew  for 
her  glowing  pictures  of  the  career  of  an  artist,  the  inde- 


ISO  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

pendent  life  in  a  home  of  her  own,  a  home  like  mine,  where 
she  would  enjoy  freedom  of  body  and  soul.  She  listened 
to  me  without  replying;  the  stream  of  my  words  seemed 
to  galvanise  her  like  a  magnetic  current,  without  pene- 
trating to  her  consciousness. 

An  agreement  between  the  two  parties  had  been  arrived 
at  at  last.  It  was  decided  that  after  all  legal  formalities 
had  been  complied  with,  the  Baroness  should  proceed  to 
Copenhagen,  where  an  uncle  of  hers  was  living.  The 
Swedish  consul  at  Copenhagen  would  communicate  with 
her  on  her  supposed  flight  from  her  husband's  house,  and 
she  would  inform  him  of  her  wish  to  have  her  marriage 
annulled.  After  that  she  would  be  free  to  make  her  own 
plans  for  the  future,  and  return  to  Stockholm.  Her  dowry 
would  remain  in  the  possession  of  her  husband,  as  well  as 
all  the  furniture,  with  the  exception  of  a  very  few  things ; 
the  little  girl  would  continue  to  live  with  her  father,  unless 
the  latter  contracted  a  second  marriage,  but  the  Baroness 
would  have  the  right  to  see  her  child  whenever  she  wished. 

The  financial  question  gave  rise  to  a  violent  scene.  To 
save  the  remnants  of  a  fortune  which  had  almost  disap- 
peared, the  father  of  the  Baroness  had  made  a  will  in  which 
he  left  everything  to  his  daughter.  Her  scheming  mother 
had  obtained  possession  of  the  inheritance,  and  was  paying 
her  son-in-law  a  certain  percentage.  Since  such  a  pro- 
cedure was  illegal,  the  Baron  insisted  that  the  will  should 
now  come  into  force.  The  old  mother-in-law,  furious  at 
the  reduction  of  her  income,  denounced  her  son-in-law  to 
her  brother,  Matilda's  father,  as  the  girl's  lover.  The 
storm  burst.  The  colonel  threatened  to  cashier  the 
Baron;  a  law-suit  was  impending. 

Now,  the  Baroness  left  no  stone  unturned  to  save  the 
father  of  her  child.  And  to  clear  him  I  was  made  the 
scapegoat. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  131 

I  was  i^revailed  upon  to  write  a  letter  to  Matilda's 
father,  in  which  I  took  the  sins  of  everybody  and  the 
responsibility  for  all  the  mischief  on  my  own  shoulders, 
called  God  to  witness  that  the  Baron  and  the  girl  were 
innocent,  and  asked  the  offended  father  to  forgive  me  for 
all  the  crimes  I  had  committed — I,  the  only  penitent  one! 

It  was  a  beautiful  action  and  a  good  one,  and  the 
Baroness  loved  me  for  it  as  a  woman  loves  a  man  who  has 
allowed  her  to  trample  on  his  honour,  his  self-respect,  his 
good  name. 

In  spite  of  my  resolution  not  to  be  mixed  up  in  these 
unsavoury  family  matters,  I  had  been  unable  to  steer  clear 
of  them. 

The  mother-in-law  paid  me  many  visits,  and,  always 
appealing  to  my  love  for  her  daughter,  tried  to  incite  me 
against  the  Baron,  but  in  vain;  I  took  my  orders  from 
no  one  but  the  Baroness.  Moreover,  on  this  point  I  sided 
with  the  father.  As  he  was  taking  charge  of  the  child, 
the  dowry,  imaginary  or  otherwise,  belonged  undoubtedly 
to  him. 

Oh,  this  month  of  April!  What  a  springtime  of  love! 
The  beloved  woman  on  the  sick-bed,  intolerable  meetings 
at  which  the  two  families  washed  their  dirty  linen,  which 
I  certainly  never  had  the  least  desire  to  come  into  contact 
with;  tears;  rudeness;  a  chaos  which  brought  to  light 
everything  base  that  had  hitherto  been  hidden  under  the 
veneer  of  education. 

That  comes  of  raising  a  nest  of  hornets  about  one's 
ears!  .  .  . 

No  wonder  that  love  suffered  under  such  conditions. 
Where  is  the  charm  of  a  woman  who  is  always  worn  out 
with  contention,  whose  conversation  bristles  with  legal 
terms  ? 

Again  and  again  I  attempted  to  instil  into  her  my 
thoughts  of  consolation  and  hope,  even  though  they  were 


132  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

often  anything  but  spontaneous,  for  I  had  come  to  the 
end  of  my  nerve-power;  and  she  accepted  everything, 
sucked  my  brain  dry,  consumed  my  heart.  In  exchange 
she  looked  upon  me  as  a  dustbin,  into  which  she  threw 
all  her  rubbish,  all  her  grief,  all  her  troubles,  all  her  cares. 

In  this  hell  I  lived  my  life,  dragged  on  my  misery, 
worked  for  a  bare  sufficiency.  When  she  came  to  see  me 
of  an  evening  and  found  me  working,  she  sulked;  and  it 
was  not  until  I  had  wasted  a  couple  of  hours  with  tears 
and  kisses  that  I  succeeded  in  convincing  her  of  my  love. 

She  conceived  love  as  never-ending  admiration,  a  servile 
readiness  to  please,  unceasing  sacrifice. 

I  was  crushed  down  by  my  heavy  responsibility.  I 
could  see  the  moment  not  very  far  off  when  misery,  or  the 
birth  of  a  child,  would  force  me  into  a  premature  marriage. 
She  had  claimed  but  three  thousand  francs  for  one  year, 
with  which  she  intended  to  defray  the  costs  of  her  artistic 
training.  I  had  no  faith  in  her  dramatic  career.  Her 
pronunciation  still  betrayed  her  Finnish  descent,  and  her 
features  were  too  irregular  for  the  stage.  To  keep  her 
from  brooding  I  made  her  repeat  poetry.  I  constituted 
myself  her  teacher.  But  she  was  too  much  occupied  with 
her  disappointments,  and  when,  after  a  rehearsal,  she  had 
to  admit  that  her  progress  was  very  small,  she  was 
inconsolable. 

How  dreary  our  love  was!  Instead  of  being  the  source 
from  which  flowed  strength  to  cope  with  our  difficulties, 
it  was  a  prolonged  torture. 

Joy  was  no  sooner  born  than  it  was  slain,  and  we 
parted,  dissatisfied,  robbed  of  the  greatest  happiness  life 
has  to  give.     A  pKwr  phantom  was  our  love ! 

But  my  monogamic  nature  recoiled  from  change.  Our 
love,  sad  as  it  was,  was  yet  the  source  from  which  sprang 
exquisite  spiritual  joys,  and  my  inextinguishable  longing 
was  the  guarantee  for  its  endurance. 


XI 

It  was  on  the  first  of  May.  All  the  necessary  docu- 
ments had  been  signed.  Her  departure  was  fixed  for  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  She  came  to  me  and  threw  her  arms 
round  me. 

"  Now  I  belong  to  you  alone;  take  me!  " 

As  we  had  never  discussed  marriage,  I  did  not  quite 
understand  what  she  meant,  and  we  sat  in  my  little  attic, 
sad  and  thoughtful.  Everything  was  permitted  to  us 
now,  but  temptation  had  diminished.  She  accused  me  of 
indifference,  and  I  proved  the  contrary  to  her.  There- 
upon she  accused  me  of  sensuality. 

Adoration,  incense  it  was  what  she  wanted ! 

She  had  hysterics,  and  complained  that  I  no  longer  loved 
her.    Already!  .  .  . 

After  half-an-hour  of  flattery  and  blandishments  she 
grew  calmer,  but  she  was  not  really  herself  until  she  had 
reduced  me  to  tears  of  despair.  Then  she  made  a  fuss 
of  me. 

The  more  humble  I  was,  the  more  I  knelt  before  her, 
small  and  miserable,  the  more  she  loved  me.  She  hated 
strength  and  manliness  in  me;  to  win  her  love  I  had  to 
pretend  to  be  wretched,  so  that  she  could  pose  as  the 
stronger,  play  "  little  mother  "  and  console  me. 

We  had  supper  in  my  room;  she  laid  the  table  and  pre- 
pared the  meal.  After  supper  I  claimed  the  rights  of  a 
lover,  and  she  made  no  resistance. 

How  wonderful  is  the  rejuvenating  power  of  love!  A 
young    girl    lay    in    my    arms,    trembling,    and    brutality 

183 


1S4  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

was  transformed  into  tenderness.  Surely  the  animal 
had  no  part  in  this  union  of  souls !  Alas !  is  it  ever 
possible  to  say  where  the  spiritual  ends  and  the  animal 
begins? 

Reassured  on  the  question  of  her  health,  she  gave  her- 
self to  me  whole-heartedly;  she  was  radiant  with  joy, 
content  and  happy;  her  beauty  shone  out;  her  eyes 
sparkled.  My  poor  attic  had  become  a  temple,  a  sump- 
tuous palace;  I  lighted  the  broken  chandelier,  my  reading 
lamp,  all  the  candles,  to  illuminate  our  happiness,  the  joy 
of  living,  the  only  thing  which  makes  our  miserable  lives 
endurable. 

For  these  moments  of  rapture  accompany  us  on  our 
thorny  pilgrimage  through  life;  the  memory  of  these 
fleeting  hours  helps  us  to  live,  and  outlive  our  former 
selves. 

"  Don't  speak  ill  of  love,"  I  said  to  her.  "  Worship 
nature  in  all  her  forces ;  honour  God,  who  compels  us  to 
be  happy  in  spite  of  ourselves !  " 

She  made  no  reply,  for  she  was  happy.  Her  yearning 
was  stilled;  my  kisses  had  driven  the  warm  blood  through 
her  beating  heart  into  her  cheeks;  the  flame  of  the  candle 
was  mirrored  in  her  eyes  moist  with  tears ;  the  rainbow 
tints  of  her  veins  api>eared  more  vivid,  like  the  plumage 
of  the  birds  in  the  springtime.  She  looked  like  a  girl  of 
sixteen,  so  delicate,  so  pure  were  her  contours;  the  dainty 
head  with  its  masses  of  golden  hair,  half-buried  in  the 
cushions,  might  have  been  a  child's. 

Thus  she  reclined  on  my  sofa,  like  a  goddess,  allowing 
me  to  worship  her,  while  she  regarded  me  with  furtive 
glances,  half  shamefaced,  half  provoking. 

How  chaste  in  her  abandonment  is  the  beloved  woman 
when  she  surrenders  herself  to  the  caresses  of  her  lover! 
And  man,  though  her  superior  mentally,  is  only  happy 
when  he  has  won  the  woman  who  is  his  true  mate.     My 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  135 

former  flirtations,  my  love  affairs  with  women  of  a  lower 
class,  appeared  to  me  like  crimes,  like  a  sin  against  the 
race.  The  white  skin,  the  perfect  feet,  the  delicate  hands, 
were  they  signs  of  degeneration?  Were  they  not  rather 
on  a  par  with  the  glossy  skin  of  the  wild  beast,  its  slim, 
sinewy  legs,  which  show  hardly  any  muscle?  The  beauty 
of  a  woman  is  the  sum  total  of  characteristics  which  are 
worthy  of  transmission  through  the  agency  of  the  man 
who  can  appreciate  them.  This  woman  had  been  pushed 
aside  by  her  husband;  therefore  she  no  longer  belonged  to 
him,  for  she  had  ceased  to  please  him.  He  could  see  no 
beauty  in  her,  and  it  was  left  to  me  to  achieve  the  blossom- 
ing of  a  flower,  the  rare  loveliness  of  which  the  seer,  the 
elect  only,  could  perceive. 

Midnight  was  striking.  From  the  barracks  close  by 
came  the  "Who  goes  there?"  of  the  relieving  guards. 
It  was  time  to  part. 

I  accompanied  my  beloved  on  her  way  home,  and,  as 
we  were  walking  along  side  by  side,  I  tried  to  kindle  in  her 
the  fire  of  my  enthusiasm,  my  new  hopes ;  I  startled  her 
with  the  plans  which  her  kisses  had  ripened  in  me.  She 
came  closer,  as  if  to  find  strength  in  contact  with  me, 
and  I  gave  her  back  tenfold  what  I  had  received  from 
her. 

When  we  had  arrived  at  the  high  railings  she  noticed 
that  she  had  forgotten  her  key.  How  annoying!  But, 
bent  on  showing  her  my  mettle  by  penetrating  into  the 
lion's  den,  I  climbed  the  railings,  dashed  across  the  court- 
yard and  knocked  at  the  front  door,  prepared  for  a  stormy 
reception  from  the  Baron,  My  throbbing  heart  was 
thrilled  by  the  thought  of  fighting  my  rival  before  her 
eyes.  The  favoured  lover  was  transformed  into  a  hero! 
But,  luckily,  it  was  only  a  servant  who  came  to  open  the 
door,  and  we  said  good-night  to  each  other  formally, 
calmly,   with   the   maid,   who   had   not   taken   the   trouble 


186  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

to   respond   to   our    "  Good-evening,"    looking   on   in   con- 
temptuous silence. 

Henceforth  she  felt  sure  of  my  love,  and  so  she 
abused  it. 

She  came  to  see  me  to-day.  She  could  not  find  words 
enough  to  praise  her  husband.  Deeply  affected  by 
Matilda's  departure,  he  had  succumbed  to  his  wife's  pres- 
sure, and  made  her  a  promise  to  save  app>earances  by 
accompanying  her  to  the  station,  for,  she  argued,  if  both 
he  and  I  were  to  see  her  off,  her  departure  would  not  have 
the  appearance  of  flight.  Moreover,  she  told  me  that  the 
Baron,  no  longer  angry  with  me,  had  consented  to  receive 
me  at  his  house,  and,  in  order  to  put  a  stop  to  the  rumours, 
show  himself  during  the  next  few  days  about  the  town  in 
my  company. 

I  appreciated  the  generosity  of  this  big,  ingenuous  child, 
with  the  honest  heart,  and,  out  of  consideration  for  him, 
I  demurred. 

"  We're  not  going  to  disgrace  him  like  that.     Never !  " 

"  Remember  that  it  is  a  question  of  my  child's  honour." 

"  Doesn't  his  honour  count  for  something?  " 

But  she  laughed  at  the  idea  of  considering  other  people's 
honour.     Looked  upon  me  as  eccentric. 

"  But  that  beats  everything!  You're  making  me  a  by- 
word, you're  degrading  us  all !  It's  folly !  It's  un- 
worthy !  "  I  exclaimed. 

She  cried;  and,  after  she  had  sobbed  for  an  hour  and 
overwhelmed  me  with  reproaches,  I  succumbed  to  the  irre- 
sistible weapon  of  her  tears,  and  consented  to  do  her  bid- 
ding. But  I  cursed  the  despot,  I  cursed  the  falling  crystal 
drops  which  increased  tenfold  the  power  of  her  glances. 

She  was  stronger  than  both  her  husband  and  myself. 
She  was  leading  us  by  the  nose  into  disgrace !     Why  did 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  137 

she  want  this  reconciliation?  Was  she  afraid  of  a  war  to 
the  knife  between  me  and  the  Baron?  Did  she  dread 
possible  disclosures?  .  .  . 

.  .  .  What  a  punishment  she  had  inflicted  on  me  by 
compelling  me  to  revisit  this  dreary  house !  But,  cruel 
egoist  that  she  was,  she  had  no  sympathy  with  another's 
terrors.  I  have  had  to  promise  her,  on  my  oath,  to  deny 
the  whole  story  of  the  illicit  relationship  which  existed 
between  the  Baron  and  her  cousin,  so  as  to  stop  all  slander. 
I  went  to  this  last  meeting  with  slow  steps  and  a  sinking 
heart. 

The  little  garden  smiled  at  me  with  its  blossoming  cherry 
trees,  its  sweet-scented  daffodils.  The  shrubbery,  where 
her  marvellous  beauty  had  bewitched  me,  was  bursting 
into  leaf;  the  turned-up  flower-beds  looked  like  black 
shrouds  spread  out  on  the  lawn;  I  pictured  the  forsaken 
little  girl  wandering  about  there  alone,  looked  after  by  a 
servant,  and  learning  her  lessons;  I  pictured  her  growing 
up,  awakening  to  the  facts  of  life,  and  being  told  one  day 
that  her  mother  had  deserted  her. 

I  mounted  the  stairs  of  the  fatal  house,  which  was  built 
against  a  sand  quarry,  and  called  up  the  memories  of  my 
childhood.  Friendship,  family,  love,  all  had  been 
jeopardised,  and,  in  spite  of  our  efforts  to  comply  with 
the  law  of  the  land,  crime  had  stained  its  threshold. 

Who  was  to  blame? 

The  Baroness  opened  the  folding  doors  and  secretly 
kissed  me  between  the  wings.  I  could  not  suppress  a 
momentary  feeling  of  loathing,  and  indignantly  pushed 
her  aside.  It  reminded  me  of  the  servants'  flirtations  at 
the  back  door,  and  filled  me  with  disgust.  Behind  the 
door!     Slut!     without  pride,  without  dignity! 

She  pretended  that  I  was  reluctant  to  enter  the  drawing- 
room,  and  asked  me  in  a  loud  voice  to  come  in,  at  the  very 
moment   when,   embarrassed   by  the   humiliating   situation 


138  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

in  which  I  found  myself,  I  hesitated,  and  was  on  the  point 
of  retracing  my  footsteps.  A  flash  from  her  eyes,  and  my 
hesitation  was  gone;  paralysed  by  her  self-command,  I 
gave  in. 

Everything  in  the  drawing-room  pointed  to  the  breaking 
up  of  the  household.  Underlinen,  dresses,  petticoats  were 
scattered  all  over  the  furniture.  The  writing-table  was 
littered  with  a  pile  of  stockings,  a  short  time  ago  the 
delight  of  my  eyes,  to-day  an  abomination.  She  came  and 
went,  counted  and  folded  up,  brazenly,  shamelessly. 

"Had  I  corrupted  her  in  so  short  a  time.'*"  I  asked 
myself,  gazing  at  this  exhibition  of  a  respectable  woman's 
underclothing. 

She  examined  one  piece  after  another,  and  put  on  one 
side  everything  which  needed  repairing;  she  noticed  that 
on  one  garment  the  ta{)es  were  missing;  she  laid  it  aside 
with  perfect  unconcern. 

I  seemed  to  be  present  at  an  execution;  I  felt  sick  with 
misery,  while  she  listened  absent-mindedly  to  my  futile 
conversation  about  unimportant  details.  I  was  waiting 
for  the  Baron,  who  had  locked  himself  into  the  dining- 
room  and  was  writing  letters. 

At  last  the  door  opened;  I  started  apprehensively,  but 
it  was  only  the  little  girl  who  came  in,  puzzled  to  know  the 
reason  of  all  this  upset.  She  ran  up  to  me,  accompanied 
by  her  mother's  spaniel,  and  held  up  her  forehead  to  be 
kissed.  I  blushed.  I  felt  angry,  and  turned  to  the 
Baroness. 

"  You  might  at  least  have  spared  me  this !  " 

But  she  did  not  understand  what  I  meant. 

"  Mamma  is  going  away,  darling,  but  she'll  soon  be 
back  and  bring  you  lots  of  toys." 

The  little  dog  begged  for  a  caress — he,  too ! 

A  little  later  the  Baron  appeared. 

He  walked  up  to  me,  broken,  crushed,  and  pressed  my 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  139 

hand,  unable  to  utter  a  word.  I  honoured  his  evident 
grief  by  a  respectful  silence,  and  he  withdrew  again. 

The  dusk  was  beginning  to  gather  in  the  corners  of  the 
room.  The  maid  lighted  the  lamps  without  seeming  to 
notice  my  presence.  Supper  was  announced.  I  wanted 
to  go.  But  the  Baron  added  his  pressing  invitation  to 
that  of  the  Baroness,  and  in  so  touching  and  sincere  a 
manner  that  I  accepted  and  stayed. 

And  we  sat  down  to  supper,  the  three  of  us,  as  in  the 
old  days.  It  was  a  solemn  moment.  We  talked  of  all 
that  had  happened,  and  with  moist  eyes  asked  one  another 
the  question:  "Who  is  to  blame?"  Nobody,  destiny, 
a  series  of  incidents,  paltry  in  themselves,  a  number  of 
forces.  We  shook  hands,  clinked  our  glasses  together  and 
spoke  of  our  undying  friendship  exactly  as  in  the  days  gone 
by.  The  Baroness  alone  kept  up  her  spirits.  She  made 
the  programme  for  the  following  day:  the  meeting  at  the 
railway  station,  the  walks  through  the  town,  and  we  agreed 
to    everything. 

At  last  I  rose  to  go.  The  Baron  accompanied  us  into 
the  drawing-room.  There  he  laid  the  hand  of  the 
Baroness  into  mine  and  said,  with  choking  voice — 

"  Be  her  friend.  My  part  is  played  out.  Take  care  of 
her,  guard  her  from  the  wickedness  of  the  world,  cultivate 
her  talent:  you  q.re  better  able  to  do  it  than  I,  a  poor 
soldier.     God  protect  you !  " 

He  left  us ;  the  door  closed  behind  him,  and  we  were 
alone. 

Was  he  sincere  at  that  moment?  I  thought  so  at  the 
time,  and  I  should  like  to  think  so  still.  He  was  of  a 
sentimental  nature,  and,  in  his  way,  fond  of  us;  doubtless, 
the  thought  of  seeing  the  mother  of  his  child  in  the  hands 
of  an  enemy  would  have  been  painful  to  him. 

It  is  possible  that  later  on,  under  adverse  influence,  he 
boasted   of   having   fooled   us.      But   such    a   thing   would 


140  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

really  have  been  foreign  to  his  character — and  is  it  not  a 
well-known  fact  that  no  one  likes  to  admit  having  been 
duped  ? 

It  was  six  o'clock  at  night.  I  was  pacing  the  large  hall 
of  the  Central  Station.  The  train  for  Copenhagen  would 
leave  at  six-fifteen,  and  neither  the  Baron  nor  the  Baroness 
had  appeared. 

I  felt  like  the  spectator  of  the  last  act  of  a  terrible 
tragedy,  I  was  longing  wildly  for  the  end.  Another 
quarter  of  an  hour  and  there  would  be  peace.  My  nerves, 
disordered  by  these  successive  crises,  required  rest,  and 
the  coming  night  would  restore  some  of  the  nerve  force 
which  I  had  used  up  and  squandered  for  the  love  of  a 
woman. 

She  arrived  at  the  last  moment,  in  a  cab,  drawn  by  a 
mare  which  the  driver  was  leading  by  the  bridle. 

Always  careless  and  always  too  late ! 

She  rushed  towards  me  like  a  lunatic. 

"  The  traitor !  He  has  broken  his  word !  He's  not 
coming !  "  she  exclaimed  so  loudly  that  she  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  passers-by. 

It  was  certainly  unfortunate,  but  I  could  not  help 
respecting  him  for  it. 

"  He's  quite  right.  He  has  common-sense  on  his  side," 
I  said,  seized  with  a  spirit  of  contradiction. 

"  Be  quick !  Take  a  ticket  for  Coj>enhagen,  or  I  shall 
stay  here !  "  she  ordered. 

"  No!  If  I  went  with  you  it  would  look  like  an  elope- 
ment.    All  Stockholm  would  talk  about  it  to-morrow." 

"  I  don't  care.  .  .  .  Make  haste !  " 

"  No !     I  won't !  " 

But  I  could  not  help  pitying  her  at  the  moment,  and  the 
situation  was  becoming  unbearable.  A  quarrel,  a  lover's 
quarrel  was  inevitable. 

She  knew  it  instinctively,  and,  seizing  my  hands,  she 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  141 

implored  me  with  her  eyes;  the  ice  melted;  the  sorceress 
won;  I  wavered  ...  I  succumbed.  .  .  . 

"  To  Katrineholm  then !  " 

"  Very  well,  if  you'd  rather." 

She  was  having  her  luggage  registered. 

Everything  was  lost,  including  honour,  and  I  had  before 
me  the  prospect  of  a  painful  journey. 

The  train  moved  out  of  the  station.  We  were  alone  in 
a  first-class  compartment.  The  Baron's  non-appearance 
had  depressed  us.  It  was  an  unforseen  danger  and  a  bad 
omen.  An  uneasy  silence  reigned  in  the  carriage;  one  of 
us  had  to  break  it.     She  was  the  one  to  speak. 

"  Axel,  you  don't  love  me  any  more !  " 

"  Perhaps  not,"  I  replied,  worn  out  by  a  month  of 
chaos. 

"  And  I  have  sacrificed  everything  to  you !  " 

"  Sacrificed  everything?  .  .  .  To  your  love,  perhaps, 
but  not  to  me.  And  have  I  not  sacrificed  my  life  to  you? 
You  are  angry  with  Gustav  and  you're  venting  your  anger 
on  me  ...  be  reasonable." 

Tears,  tears !  What  a  wedding  tour !  I  steeled  my 
nerves,  put  on  my  armour.  I  became  indifferent, 
impenetrable. 

"  Restrain  your  emotions !  From  to-day  you  must  use 
your  common-sense.  Weep,  weep  until  the  source  of  your 
tears  is  dry,  but  then  lift  up  your  head.  You  are  a  foolish 
woman,  and  I  have  honoured  you  as  a  queen,  as  a  ruler !  I 
have  done  your  bidding  because  I  thought  myself  the 
weaker  of  the  two !  Unfortunately !  Don't  make  me 
despise  you.  Don't  ever  try  to  blame  me  alone  for  what 
has  happened.  I  admired  Gustav's  shrewdness  last  night. 
He  has  realised  that  the  great  events  in  life  have  always 
more  than  one  cause.  Who  is  to  blame?  You?  I? 
He?  She?  The  threatening  ruin,  your  passion  for  the 
stage,   your   internal   trouble,   the   inheritance   from   your 


142  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

thrice-married  grandfather?  Your  mother's  hatred  of 
bearing  children  which  is  the  cause  of  your  vacillating 
disposition?  The  idleness  of  your  husband,  whose  profes- 
sion left  him  too  much  leisure?  My  instincts?  The 
instincts  of  the  man  who  has  risen  from  the  lower  classes  ? 
My  accidental  meeting  with  your  Finnish  friend  who 
brought  us  together?  An  endless  number  of  motives,  a 
few  of  which  only  are  known  to  us.  Don't  debase  yourself 
before  the  mob  who  will  unanimously  condemn  you  to- 
morrow; don't  believe,  like  those  poor  in  spirit,  that  you 
can  solve  such  an  intricate  problem  by  taking  neither  the 
crime  nor  the  criminal  seriously!  ,  .  .  And,  moreover, 
have  I  seduced  you?  Be  candid  with  yourself,  with  me, 
while  we're  here  alone,  without  witnesses." 

But  she  would  not  be  candid. 

She  could  not,  for  candour  is  not  a  woman's  character- 
istic. 

She  knew  herself  to  be  an  accomplice  in  crime;  she  was 
tortured  by  remorse.  She  had  but  one  thought,  to  ease 
her  conscience  by  throwing  the  whole  blame  on  me. 

I  left  her  to  herself,  and  wrapped  myself  in  a  callous 
silence. 

Night  fell.  I  opened  the  window  and  leaned  against  the 
door,  gazing  at  the  quickly-passing  black  Scotch  firs, 
behind  which  the  pale  moon  was  rising.  Then  a  lake 
passed,  surrounded  by  birch  trees;  a  brook  bordered  by 
alders;  cornfields,  meadows,  and  then  Scotch  firs  again,  a 
long  stretch  of  them.  A  mad  desire  to  throw  myself  out 
of  the  carriage  seized  me;  a  desire  to  escajje  from  this 
prison  where  I  was  watched  by  an  enemy,  kept  sp>ell-bound 
by  a  witch.  But  the  anxiety  for  her  future  oppressed  me 
like  a  nightmare;  I  felt  responsible  for  her,  who  was  a 
stranger  to  me,  for  her  unborn  children,  for  the  support 
of  her  mother,  her  aimt,  her  whole  family,  for  centuries 
to  come. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  143 

I  should  make  it  my  business  to  procure  for  her  success 
on  the  stage;  I  should  bear  all  her  sorrows,  her  disappoint- 
mentSj  her  failures,  so  that  one  day  she  could  throw  me 
in  the  dust  like  a  squeezed-out  lemon — me,  my  whole  life, 
my  brain,  the  marrow  of  my  spine,  my  life-blood;  all  in 
exchange  for  the  love  which  I  gave  her,  and  which  she 
accepted  and  called  "  sacrificing  herself  to  me."  Delu- 
sions of  love !  hypnotism  of  passion ! 

She  sat  without  moving  until  ten  o'clock,  sulking.  One 
more  hour  and  we  should  have  to  say  good-bye. 

All  at  once,  with  a  word  of  apology,  she  put  her  two 
feet  on  the  cushioned  seat,  pretending  to  be  worn  out  with 
fatigue.  Her  languid  glances,  her  tears  had  left  me 
unmoved;  I  had  kept  my  head,  my  strength  of  pur- 
f>ose  in  spite  of  her  fallacious  logic.  Now  everything 
collapsed.  I  beheld  her  adorable  boots,  a  tiny  piece  of 
her  stocking. 

Down  on  your  knees,  Sampson!  Put  your  head  in  her 
lap,  press  your  cheeks  against  her  knees,  ask  her  to  forgive 
you  for  the  cruel  words  with  which  you  have  lashed  her — 
and  which  she  didn't  even  understand !  Slave !  Coward ! 
You  lie  in  the  dust  before  a  stocking,  you,  who  thought 
yourself  strong  enough  to  conquer  a  world!  And  she,  she 
only  loves  you  when  you  debase  yourself;  she  buys  you 
cheaply  at  the  price  of  a  few  moments  of  gratified  passion, 
for  she  has  nothing  to  lose. 

The  engine  whistled ;  the  train  glided  into  the  station ;  I 
had  to  leave  her.  She  kissed  me  with  motherly  affection, 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  my  forehead — although  she 
was  a  Protestant — commended  me  to  the  Lord,  begged 
me  to  take  care  of  myself,  and  not  to  give  way  to  fretting. 

The  train  steamed  out  into  the  night,  choking  me  with 
its  bituminous  smoke. 

I  breathed — at  last — the  cool  evening  air,  and  enjoyed 
my  freedom.     Alas!  but  for  a  moment.     No  sooner  had 


144  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

I  arrived  at  the  village  inn  than  I  broke  down.  I  loved 
her,  yes,  I  loved  her,  just  as  I  had  seen  her  at  the  moment 
of  parting;  for  that  moment  recalled  to  me  the  first  sweet 
days  of  our  friendship,  when  she  was  the  lovely,  womanly 
tender  mother,  who  spoiled  and  caressed  me  as  if  I  had 
been  a  little  child. 

And  yet  I  loved  her  ardently,  desired  to  make  this 
stormy  woman  my  wife. 

I  asked  for  writing  material,  and  wrote  her  a  letter  in 
which  I  told  her  that  I  would  pray  to  God  for  her 
happiness. 

Her  last  embrace  had  led  me  back  to  God,  and,  under 
the  influence  of  her  parting  kiss,  still  fresh  on  my  lips,  I 
denied  the  new  faith,  which  teaches  the  progress  of 
humanity. 

The  first  stage  in  the  downfall  of  a  man  had  been 
reached;  the  others  were  sure  to  follow — to  utter  degrada- 
tion, to  the  verge  of  insanity. 


PART  II 


On  the  day  after  our  departure  the  whole  town  knew 
that  Baroness  X  had  eloped  with  one  of  the  librarians  of 
the  Royal  Library. 

This  was  only  what  was  to  be  expected,  to  be  dreaded ! 
After  all  my  efforts  to  save  her  good  name,  we  had  for- 
gotten everything  in  a  moment  of  weakness. 

She  had  spoiled  all  our  plans,  and  all  that  remained 
for  me  to  do  was  to  take  the  responsibility  on  my  own 
shoulders  and  grapple  to  the  best  of  my  ability  with  the 
consequences  which  threatened  to  ruin  her  theatrical 
career;  there  was  only  one  theatre  where  she  could 
possibly  appear,  and  loose  morals  were  not  likely  to 
increase  her  chances  of  an  engagement  at  the  Royal 
Theatre. 

On  the  morning  after  my  return  I  made  an  excuse  to 
call  on  the  chief  librarian,  who  was  slightly  unwell  and 
unable  to  go  out.  The  sole  object  of  my  visit  was  the 
establishment  of  an  alibi.  After  leaving  him  I  strolled 
through  the  main  streets  and  thoroughfares  and  arrived 
at  my  office  at  the  usual  hour.  I  spent  the  evening  at 
the  Press  Club,  and  deliberately  set  the  rumour  afloat 
that  there  was  but  one  reason  for  the  divorce,  and  that 
was  the  Baroness's  determination  to  enter  the  theatrical 
profession.  I  maintained  that  husband  and  wife  were  on 
the  best  of  terms,  and  that  their  separation  was  but  the 
inevitable  result  of  class  prejudice. 

If  I  had  only  known  what  harm  I  was  doing  myself  by 
spreading  these  rumours  and  proclaiming  her  innocence! 
.    .    .    But  no,  I  should  not  have  acted  otherwise. 

145 


146  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

The  papers  scrambled  eagerly  for  the  smart  society 
scandal^  but  the  public  scoffed  at  this  irresistible  love  of 
art,  a  more  or  less  doubtful  phenomenon  always,  but  more 
especially  when  the  stage  is  concerned.  The  women  in 
particular  were  sceptical,  and  the  forsaken  child  remained 
an  ugly  fact  which  nothing  could  explain  away. 

In  the  meantime  I  received  a  letter — a  perfect  howl  of 
anguish — from  Copenhagen.  Tortured  by  remorse,  by  a 
yearning  for  her  deserted  child,  she  asked  me  to  come 
to  her  at  once,  complaining  bitterly  of  her  relatives  who, 
she  asserted,  were  making  her  life  one  long  drawn-out 
agony.  She  charged  them  with  having  suppressed,  in 
collusion  with  her  husband,  an  important  document, 
which  was  essential  for  the  final  decision  in  the  case. 

I  refused  to  leave  town,  but  wrote  a  few  angry  lines 
to  the  Baron.  His  reply  was  so  insolent  that  it  led  to  a 
complete  rupture  between  us. 

One  or  two  telegrams  passed,  and  peace  was  re-estab- 
lished. The  document  was  found,  and  the  proceedings 
went  on. 

I  spent  my  evenings  in  writing  long  letters  to  her, 
giving  her  minute  instructions  how  to  comport  herself 
in  the  circumstances.  These  letters  were  intended  to 
cheer  and  encourage  her.  I  advised  her  to  work,  to  study 
her  art,  to  visit  the  theatres.  In  my  anxiety  to  supple- 
ment her  income,  I  urged  her  to  write  on  anything  which 
she  found  interesting,  and  undertook  to  get  her  articles 
accepted  by  a  first-class  paper. 

No  answer.  I  had  every  reason  to  believe  that  her 
independent   spirit   resented   my   well-meant   interference. 

A  week  passed;  a  week  full  of  care,  unrest  and 
hard  work.  Then,  early  one  morning,  before  I  was  up,  I 
received  a  letter  from  Copenhagen. 

The  tone  of  her  letter  was  calm  and  serene;  she  seemed 
unable  to  hide  a  certain  pride  on  account  of  the  quarrel 
between  the  Baron  and  myself.     (She  was  in  a  fair  posi- 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  147 

tion  to  form  an  opinion,  since  she  had  received  the 
respective  letters  from  both  of  us.)  She  found  the 
"  duel  "  not  without  style,  and  admired  my  pluck.  "  It 
is  a  pity,"  she  concluded  her  letter,  "  that  two  men  like 
you  and  the  Baron  should  not  be  friends."  Further  on 
she  gave  me  a  detailed  account  of  what  she  was  doing 
to  while  away  the  time.  She  was  evidently  enjoying  her- 
self; she  had  made  her  way  into  second-rate  artistic 
circles,  a  fact  which  I  did  not  like.  She  described  an 
evening  spent  at  some  assembly-rooms  in  the  company  of 
a  number  of  young  men,  who  paid  her  a  great  deal  of 
attention;  she  had  made  the  conquest  of  a  musician,  a 
youth  who  had  sacrificed  his  family  to  his  art.  "  What  a 
strange  similarity  between  our  two  cases !  "  she  remarked. 
Then  followed  a  detailed  biography  of  the  interesting 
martyr  and  the  request  not  to  be  jealous. 

"What  did  she  mean?"  I  wondered,  taken  aback  by 
the  half-sarcastic,  half-familiar  tone  of  her  letter,  which 
appeared  to  be  written  between  two  entertainments. 

Was  it  possible  that  this  coldly  voluptuous  madonna 
belonged  to  the  class  of  born  wantons,  that  she  was  a 
coquette,  a  cocotte? 

I  sat  down  at  once  and  indited  a  furious  scolding;  I 
painted  her  picture  as  she  then  appeared  to  me.  I  called 
her  Madame  Bovary;  I  entreated  her  to  break  the  spell 
which  was  leading  her  to  a  precipice. 

In  reply,  "  as  a  proof  of  her  absolute  faith  in  me,"  she 
sent  me  the  letters  which  the  young  enthusiast  had  written 
to  her.     Love  letters  ! 

The  same  old  use  of  the  term  friendship,  the  inexplic- 
able sympathy  of  the  souls,  and  the  whole  list  of  the  trite 
and  to  us  both  so  familiar  words:  brother  and  sister,  little 
mother,  playmates,  and  so  on,  cloaks  and  covers  under 
which  lovers  are  wont  to  hide,  to  abandon  themselves 
ultimately  to  their  passions. 

What  was   I   to  think?     Was   she  mentally  deranged? 


148  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Was  she  an  unconscious  criminal  who  remembered  nothing 
of  the  terrible  experience  of  the  last  two  months,  when 
the  hearts  of  three  people  were  on  fire  for  her?  And  I 
who  had  been  made  to  play  the  part  of  a  Cinderella,  a 
scape-goat,  a  man  of  straw,  I  was  toiling  to  remove  all 
obstacles  from  her  way  to  the  irregular  life  of  the  theatre. 

A  fresh  blow!  To  see  the  woman  whom  I  adored 
wallow  in  the  gutter. 

My  soul  was  filled  with  unspeakable  compassion,  I  had 
a  foreboding  of  the  fate  which  awaited  her,  perverse 
woman  that  she  was,  and  vowed  to  lift  her  up,  to 
strengthen  and  support  her,  to  do  everything  in  my  power 
to  shield  her  from  a  fatal  catastrophe. 

Jealous!  That  vulgar  word  invented  by  a  woman  in 
order  to  mislead  the  man  she  has  deceived  or  means  to 
deceive.  The  hoodwinked  husband  shows  his  anger,  and 
the  word  jealous  is  flung  in  his  face.  Jealous  husband — 
husband  betrayed !  And  there  are  women  who  look  upon 
jealousy  as  synonymous  with  impotence,  so  that  the  be- 
trayed husband  can  only  shut  his  eyes,  powerless  in  the 
face  of  such  accusations. 

She  returned  after  a  fortnight,  pretty,  fresh,  in  high 
spirits,  and  full  of  bright  memories,  for  she  had 
thoroughly  enjoyed  herself.  She  was  wearing  a  new  dress 
with  touches  of  brilliant  colouring,  which  struck  me  as 
vulgar.  I  was  puzzled.  The  woman  who  used  to  dress 
so  simply,  so  quietly,  with  such  exquisite  taste,  was 
adopting  a  colour  scheme  which  was  positively  garish. 

Our  meeting  was  colder  than  either  of  us  had  expected; 
there  was  a  constrained  silence  at  first,  followed  by  a 
sudden  outburst. 

The  flatteries  of  her  new  friends  had  turned  her  head; 
she  gave  herself  airs,  teased  me,  made  fun  of  me.  She 
spread  her  gorgeous  dress  over  my  old  sofa,  to  hide  its 
shabbiness.  Her  old  power  over  me  reasserted  itself,  and 
for  a  moment  I  forgot  all  resentment  in  a  passionate  kiss; 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  149 

nevertheless,  a  slight  feeling  of  anger  remained  at  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  and  presently  found  vent  in  a  torrent 
of  reproaches.  Subdued  by  my  impetuosity,  which  con- 
trasted so  strangely  with  her  own  indolent  nature,  she 
took  refuge  in  tears. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  absurd  as  to  imagine  that  I  was 
flirting  with  that  young  man.-*  "  she  sobbed.  "  I  promise 
you  never  to  write  to  him  again,  although  I'm  sure  he'll 
think  it  rude  of  me." 

Rude !  One  of  her  favourite  catchwords !  A  man 
pays  her  attention,  in  other  words  makes  advances  to  her, 
and  she  listens  politely,  for  fear  of  being  rude.  What 
a  woman! 

But  fate  was  against  me.  I  was  lying  at  her  feet,  her 
beautiful  little  feet,  encased  in  tiny  shoes.  She  was  wear- 
ing black  silk  stockings,  which  added  to  my  confusion; 
her  leg  was  a  little  fuller  than  it  had  been;  the  black  legs 
in  a  cloud  of  petticoats  were  the  legs  of  a  she-devil. 

Her  constant  fear  of  motherhood  irritated  me;  I  lied  to 
her;  I  told  her  that  she  had  nothing  to  fear  from  me; 
that  I  knew  how  to  cheat  nature.  I  repeated  my  assur- 
ances until  I  finished  by  believing  in  them  myself,  and 
in  the  end  succeeded  in  setting  her  mind  at  ease  by  prom- 
ising to  be  responsible  for  all  consequences. 

She  was  living  with  her  mother  and  aunt  in  the  second 
story  of  a  house  in  one  of  the  main  thoroughfares.  As 
she  threatened  to  visit  me  in  my  own  room  if  they  pre- 
vented me  from  seeing  her,  I  was  allowed  to  call.  But 
the  thought  of  the  supervision  of  these  two  old  women, 
whom  I  knew  to  be  watching  us  through  the  keyhole  all 
the  time,  was  almost  beyond  bearing. 

The  divorced  husband  and  wife  were  beginning  to 
realise  how  much  they  had  lost.  The  Baroness,  once  a 
respected  married  woman,  mistress  of  an  aristocratic 
establishment,  had  returned  to  the  conditions  of  her 
childhood.     She  was  under  the    control    of    her    mother^ 


160  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

almost  a  prisoner  in  one  room,  kept  by  two  old  women, 
who  were  themselves  in  needy  circumstances.  The  mother 
never  lost  an  opportunity  of  reminding  her  of  her  careful 
bringing  up  and  how  she  had  been  fitted  to  take  an 
honourable  social  position,  and  the  daughter  remembered 
the  happy  days  following  her  release  from  the  parental 
yoke.  Bitter  words  were  spoken  on  both  sides,  tears  and 
insults  were  all  too  frequent,  and  I  had  to  pay  for  them 
when  I  called  in  the  evening  ...  to  visit  a  prisoner 
under  the  eyes  of  a  warder  and  witness. 

When  the  strain  of  these  painful  meetings  became  un- 
bearable, we  ventured  to  meet  two  or  three  times  in  the 
park.  But  we  only  jumped  from  the  frying-pan  into  the 
fire,  for  now  we  were  exposed  to  the  contemptuous  stare 
of  the  crowd.  We  hated  the  spring  sunshine  which 
illuminated  our  misery.  We  missed  the  darkness,  we 
longed  for  the  winter,  which  made  it  easier  for  us  to  hide 
our  shame.  Alas !  the  summer  was  coming  with  its  long 
nights,  which  know  no  darkness. 

Our  former  friends  dropped  us,  one  after  the  other. 
Even  my  sister,  intimidated  by  the  now  universal  gossip, 
grew  suspicious  and  estranged  when  the  ex-baroness,  at 
a  little  supper  party,  tried  to  keep  up  her  spirits  by  taking 
too  much  wine,  became  intoxicated,  proposed  a  toast, 
smoked  cigarettes,  and  generally  behaved  in  a  way  which 
excited  the  disgust  of  the  women  and  the  contempt  of 
the  men. 

"  That  woman's  a  common  prostitute !  "  said  a  respect- 
able married  man  and  father  of  a  family  to  my  brother- 
in-law,  and  the  latter  took  the  first  chance  to  repeat  the 
remark  to  me. 

When  on  the  following  Sunday  evening  we  arrived  at 
my  sister's  house,  where  we  had  been  invited  to  supper, 
the  servant  informed  us,  to  our  consternation,  that  her 
master  and  mistress  were  out. 

We   spent  the   evening  in   my   room,   a   prey  to   anger 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  151 

and  despair,  seeking  comfort  in  the  thought  of  suicide. 
I  pulled  down  the  blinds  to  shut  out  the  daylight,  and  we 
sat  together  in  misery,  waiting  for  night  and  darkness, 
before  we  ventured  out  again  into  the  street.  But  the 
summer  sun  did  not  set  until  late,  and  at  eight  o'clock 
we  both  felt  hungry.  Neither  of  us  had  any  money,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  eat  or  drink  in  the  cupboard.  These 
moments  were  some  of  the  most  wretched  moments  of 
my  life,  and  gave  me  a  foretaste  of  misery  to  come. 
Reproaches,  cold  kisses,  floods  of  tears,  remorse,  disgust. 

I  tried  to  persuade  her  to  go  home  and  have  supj>er 
with  her  mother,  but  she  was  afraid  of  the  daylight; 
moreover,  her  heart  sank  at  the  thought  of  the  necessary 
explanation.  She  had  eaten  nothing  since  two  o'clock, 
and  the  melancholy  prospect  of  going  to  bed  supperless 
aroused  the  wild  beast  hunger  in  her. 

She  had  grown  up  in  a  wealthy  home,  and  had  been 
used  to  every  kind  of  luxury ;  she  had  no  idea  what  poverty 
meant,  and  consequently  she  was  completely  unstrung. 
I,  who  had  been  familiar  with  hunger  from  childhood, 
suffered  torture  to  see  her  in  such  a  desperate  position. 
I  ransacked  my  cupboard,  but  could  find  nothing;  I 
searched  the  drawers  of  my  writing-table,  and  there, 
amongst  all  sorts  of  keep-sakes,  faded  flowers,  old  love- 
letters,  discoloured  ribbons,  I  found  two  sweets  which  I 
had  kept  in  remembrance  of  a  funeral.  I  offered  them  to 
her  just  as  they  were,  wrapped  in  black  paper  and  tinfoil. 
A  distressing  banquet  indeed,  these  sweets  in  their 
mourning  dress ! 

Depressed,  humiliated,  apprehensive,  I  raged  and 
thundered  furiously  against  all  respectable  women  whose 
doors  were  closed  to  us,  who  would  have  none  of  us. 

"Why  this  hostility  and  contempt?  Had  we  com- 
mitted a  crime?  Surely  not;  it  was  but  a  question  of  a 
straightforward  divorce;  we  were  complying  with  all  the 
rules  and  requirements  of  the  law." 


162  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  We  have  been  behaving  too  correctly,"  she  said, 
trying  to  comfort  herself.  "  The  world  is  but  a  pack  of 
knaves.  It  winks  at  open,  shameless  adultery,  but  con- 
demns divorce.    A  high  standard  of  morality  indeed !  " 

We  were  agreed  on  the  subject.  But  the  facts 
remained.  The  crime  continued  to  hang  over  our  heads, 
which  drooped  under  its  weight. 

I  felt  like  a  boy  who  has  robbed  a  bird's  nest.  The 
mother  had  flown  away,  the  little  ones  lay  prostrate, 
chirping  plaintively,  bereft  of  the  protecting  warmth  of 
the  mother's  wings. 

And  the  father.?  He  was  left  desolate  in  the  ruined 
home.  I  pictured  him  of  a  Sunday  evening,  an  evening 
like  this,  when  the  family  assembles  round  the  fireplace, 
alone  in  the  drawing-room,  with  the  silenced  piano;  alone 
in  the  dining-room,  eating  his  solitary  dinner;  alone 
always.    ... 

"  Oh,  no,  nothing  of  the  kind !  "  she  interrupted  my 
musings ;  "  you  are  quite  mistaken !  You  would  be  much 
more  likely  to  find  him  lounging  on  the  comfortable  sofa 
at  Matilde's  brother-in-law's;  he  has  had  a  good  dinner 
with  plenty  of  wine,  and  is  gently  squeezing  the  hand 
of  my  poor,  dear,  libelled  little  cousin,  laughing  at  the 
outrageous  stories  told  of  his  wife's  ill-conduct — his  wife, 
who  refused  to  countenance  his  infidelity.  And  both  of 
them,  surrounded  and  upheld  by  the  sympathy  and 
applause  of  this  hypocritical  world,  are  eager  to  throw 
the  first  stone  at  us." 

Her  words  set  me  thinking,  and  after  a  while  I  expressed 
the  opinion  that  the  Baron  had  led  us  by  the  nose;  that 
he  had  schemed  to  rid  himself  of  a  troublesome  wife,  so 
as  to  be  able  to  marry  again,  and  had  managed  to  secure 
her  dowry,  in  spite  of  the  law. 

She  became  indignant  at  once. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  say  anything  against  him !  It 
was  all  my  fault ! " 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  153 

"Why  have  I  no  right  to  say  anything  against  him? 
Is  his  person  sacred  ?  " 

One  might  almost  have  thought  so,  for  whenever  I 
attacked  him  she  took  his  part. 

Was  it  the  freemasonry  of  caste  which  prompted  her  to 
stand  up  for  him?  Or  were  there  secrets  in  her  life  which 
made  her  fear  his  enmity?  I  could  not  solve  the  riddle, 
nor  discover  the  reason  of  her  loyalty  to  him,  which  no 
disloyalty  on  his  part  could  shake. 

The  sun  set  at  last,  and  we  parted.  I  slept  the  sleep 
of  the  famished;  I  dreamed  that  I  was  making  desperate 
efforts  to  wing  my  way  heavenwards,  with  a  millstone 
round  my  neck. 

Misfortune  dogged  our  footsteps.  We  approached 
one  of  the  theatrical  managers  with  the  request  to  give 
us  a  date  for  her  first  appearance.  He  replied  that  he 
could  not,  in  his  official  position,  have  anything  to  do  with 
a  runaway  wife. 

We  left  no  stone  unturned,  but  all  our  efforts  were 
doomed  to  failure.  A  year  hence  her  resources  would  be 
exhausted,  and  she  would  be  thrown  on  the  street.  It 
was  my  business,  the  business  of  the  poor  Bohemian,  to 
save  her  from  that  fate. 

To  avoid  every  possibility  of  a  misunderstanding,  she 
called  on  an  old  friend  of  hers,  a  former  tragedienne, 
whom  up  to  quite  recently  she  had  constantly  met  in 
society,  and  who  had  cringed  like  a  dog  before  the  "  golden- 
haired  Baroness,"  her  "  little  fairy."  "^ 

The  great  actress,  a  notoriously  unfaithful  wife,  grown 
grey  in  vice  at  the  side  of  her  husband,  received  the 
honest  sinner  with  insults  and  closed  her  door  to  her. 

We  had  tried  everything! 

There  remained  nothing  but  revenge. 

"Very  well,"  I  said  to  her,  "why  not  try  writing? 
Write  a  play,  get  it  produced  at  this  very  theatre?    Why 


164  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

descend  when  there  is  a  possibility  of  rising?  Put  your 
foot  on  that  old  woman!  With  one  stride  rise  far  above 
her  head !  Show  off  this  lying,  hypocritical,  vicious 
society,  which  opens  its  houses  to  prostitutes,  but  closes 
them  to  a  divorced  wife.     It's  good  stuff  for  a  play." 

But  she  was  one  of  those  soft  natures,  very  susceptible, 
very  easily  impressed,  but  imable  to  strike  back. 

"  No,  no  revenge !  " 

And  cowardly  and  revengeful  at  the  same  time,  she  left 
vengeance  to  God;  it  came  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end, 
but  it  put  the  responsibility  on  a  man  of  straw. 

But  I  persevered,  and  at  last  fortune  favoured  me.  I 
had  an  order  from  a  publisher  to  edit  an  illustrated  book 
for  children. 

"Write  the  text,"  I  suggested;  "you  will  be  paid  a 
hundred  francs  for  it." 

I  supplied  her  with  reference  books;  I  made  her  believe 
that  she  had  done  the  work  unaided,  and  she  pocketed 
the  hundred  francs.  But  I  paid  a  heavy  penalty.  The 
publisher  stipulated  that  my  name,  which  had  come  before 
the  public  as  that  of  a  playwright,  should  appear  on  the 
title-page.  It  was  literary  prostitution,  and  my  enemies, 
who  had  predicted  my  incapacity  of  distinguishing  myself 
in  literature,  triumphed. 

After  that  I  persuaded  her  to  write  an  article  for  one 
of  the  morning  papers.  She  acquitted  herself  fairly  well. 
The  article  was  accepted,  but  the  paper  made  no  payment. 

I  wore  myself  out  in  trying  to  raise  a  sovereign,  and, 
succeeding  after  endless  efforts,  I  handed  it  over  to  her 
with  the  white  lie  that  it  represented  her  remuneration 
from  the  paper. 

Poor  Marie!  She  was  delighted  to  give  her  small 
earnings  to  her  old  mother,  who  supplemented  her  income 
by  letting  furnished  apartments. 

The  old  ladies  began  to  look  upon  me  as  their  saviour; 
copies  of  translations,  unanimously  rejected  by  theatrical 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  155 

managers  in  bygone  days,  appeared  from  drawers,  where 
they  had  long  lain  forgotten.  I  was  credited  with  the 
wondrous  capacity  to  effect  their  acceptance,  and  burdened 
with  futile  commissions  which  interfered  with  my  work  and 
caused  me  no  end  of  trouble.  I  had  to  fall  back  on  my 
small  savings  because  I  wasted  my  time  and  used  up  my 
nervous  energy;  I  could  only  afford  one  meal  a  day,  and 
reverted  to  my  old  habit  of  going  to  bed  without  supper. 

Encouraged  by  her  few  little  successes,  Marie  under- 
took to  write  a  play  in  five  acts.  I  seemed  to  have  sown 
into  her  soul  all  the  sterile  seed  of  my  poetic  inspirations. 
In  this  virgin  soil  it  germinated  and  grew,  while  I 
remained  unproductive,  like  a  flower  which  shakes  out  its 
seed  and  withers.  My  soul  was  lacerated,  sick  to  death. 
The  influence  of  that  little  female  brain,  so  different 
from  the  brain  of  a  man,  disturbed  and  disordered  the 
mechanism  of  my  thoughts.  I  was  at  a  loss  to  understand 
why  I  thought  so  highly  of  her  literary  gifts,  why  I  kept 
on  urging  her  to  write,  for  with  the  exception  of  her 
letters  to  me,  which  were  mostly  personal  and  frequently 
quite  commonplace,  I  had  no  proof  that  she  could  write 
at  all.  She  had  become  my  living  poem ;  she  had  taken 
the  place  of  my  vanished  talent.  Her  personality  was 
grafted  on  mine  and  was  dominating  it.  I  existed  only 
through  her;  I,  the  mother-root,  led  an  underground  life, 
nourishing  this  tree  which  was  growing  sunwards  and 
promising  wonderful  blossoms.  I  delighted  in  its  marvel- 
lous beauty,  never  dreaming  that  the  day  would  come 
when  the  offshoot  would  separate  from  the  exhausted 
trunk,  to  bloom  and  dazzle  independently,  proud  of  the 
borrowed  splendour. 

The  first  act  of  her  play  was  finished.  I  read  it. 
Under  the  spell  of  my  hallucination  I  found  it  perfect;  I 
loudly  expressed  by  sincere  admiration  and  heartily  con- 
gratulated the  author.  She  was  herself  astonished  at  her 
talent,  and  I  prophesied  for  her  a  brilliant  future.     But 


156  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

all  of  a  sudden  our  plans  were  changed.  Marie's  mother 
remembered  a  friend,  an  artist,  a  very  wealthy  woman 
with  a  fine  estate,  and,  what  was  of  greater  importance 
still,  closely  in  touch  with  one  of  our  leading  actors  whose 
wife  was  the  rival  and  sworn  enemy  of  the  great  tragedi- 
enne, Marie's  former  friend. 

The  artist,  a  spinster,  vouched  for  the  high  moral 
standard  of  this  couple,  and  they  expressed  themselves 
ready  to  undertake  the  guidance  and  supervision  of 
Marie's  studies  until  her  first  appearance  in  public.  Marie 
was  invited  to  stay  for  a  fortnight  with  her  mother's 
friend  to  discuss  the  matter.  There  she  was  to  meet  the 
great  actor  and  his  wife  who,  to  fill  her  cup  of  happiness, 
had  used  their  influence  with  the  manager  of  the  theatre 
on  her  behalf  with  very  satisfactory  results.  His  former 
reported  refusal  was  thereby  entirely  contradicted,  and 
turned  out  to  have  been  a  fabrication  of  her  mother's, 
invented  for  the  sole  purpose  of  keeping  her  daughter  off 
the  stage. 

Marie's  future  appeared  to  be  safe.  I  could  breathe 
freely,  sleep  undisturbed,  work. 

She  stayed  away  for  a  fortnight.  To  judge  from  her 
scanty  letters  she  was  anything  but  dull.  Her  new 
friends,  to  whom  she  had  given  proofs  of  her  talent,  had 
told  her  that  she  would  do  well  on  the  stage. 

On  her  return  she  engaged  rooms  in  a  farmhouse  and 
arranged  with  the  farmer's  wife  to  board  her.  She  was 
free  of  her  warders  now,  and  we  could  spend  unchaperoned 
week-ends  together.  Life  was  smiling  at  us,  a  little  sadly, 
it  is  true,  for  a  certain  melancholy,  the  effect  of  her 
divorce,  always  remained.  But  in  the  coimtry  the  burden 
of  convention  weighs  less  heavily  than  in  town,  and  the 
summer  sun  soon  dispelled  the  gloom  which  hung  over 
our  lives. 


II 

Her  appearance  under  the  patronage  of  the  two  famous 
actors  was  announced  in  the  autumn  and  put  a  stop  to 
all  gossip.  I  did  not  like  the  part  chosen  for  her.  It' 
was  a  small  character-part  in  an  old-fashioned  play.  But 
her  teacher  and  patron  counted  on  the  sympathy  of  the 
audience  and  the  effect  of  a  good  scene,  in  which  she 
refused  an  aristocratic  suitor  who  saw  in  her  a  rare  orna- 
ment for  his  drawing-room,  and  declared  that  in  her  eyes 
the  noble  heart  of  the  j>oor  young  man  was  infinitely  more 
precious  than  all  the  wealth  and  title  of  the  nobleman. 

As  I  was  dismissed  from  my  post  as  her  teacher,  I  was 
able  to  devote  all  my  time  and  attention  to  my  scientific 
studies,  and  the  writing  of  a  paper  destined  for  some 
academy  or  other.  This  was  necessary  in  order  to  prove 
myself  a  man  of  letters  and  efficient  librarian.  With 
ardent  zeal  I  gave  myself  up  to  ethnographical  research 
in  connection  with  the  farthest  East.  It  acted  like  opium 
on  my  brain,  which  was  exhausted  by  the  struggles,  cares 
and  pains  I  had  undergone.  Inspired  by  the  ambition  to 
show  myself  worthy  of  my  beloved,  whose  future  appeared 
in  the  rosiest  hues,  I  achieved  wonders  of  industry ;  I  shut 
myself  up  in  the  vaults  of  the  Royal  Castle  from  morning 
till  night;  I  suffered  from  the  damp  and  icy  atmosphere 
without  a  complaint ;  I  defied  poverty  and  need. 

Marie's  appearance  in  public  was  postponed  by  the 
death  of  her  little  daughter,  who  died  of  brain  fever; 
another  month  of  tears,  reproaches  and  remorse  followed. 

"  It  is  a  judgment  on  you,"  declared  the  child's  grand- 

157 


158  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

mother,  glad  to  thrust  the  poisoned  dagger  into  the  heart 
of  the  daughter-in-law  whom  she  hated  because  she  had 
brought  dishonour  on  her  name. 

Marie  was  broken-hearted,  and  spent  day  and  night  at 
the  bedside  of  the  dying  child,  under  the  roof  of  her 
former  husband,  chaperoned  by  her  late  mother-in-law. 
The  father  was  overcome  with  grief  at  the  death  of  his 
only  child,  and,  bowed  down  with  sorrow,  he  longed  to 
meet  again  the  friend  of  former  days,  the  witness  of  the 
past.  One  evening,  a  few  days  after  the  little  girl's 
funeral,  my  landlady  informed  me  that  the  Baron  had 
called  and  had  left  a  message  to  the  effect  that  he  hoped 
to  see  me  at  his  house. 

Considering  the  unusual  circumstances  which  had  led 
up  to  the  breach,  I  wanted  anything  but  a  reconciliation. 
I  sent  him  a  polite  refusal. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  had  hardly  elapsed  when  Marie 
herself  appeared,  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  her  eyes  full 
of  tears,  and  begged  me  to  comply  with  the  request  of  the 
inconsolable  Baron. 

I  found  this  mission  in  abominable  taste.  I  rated  her 
soundly,  and  pointed  out  to  her  how  ambiguous  and 
unjustifiable  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  such  a  situation 
would  be.  She  upbraided  me  with  my  prejudices,  im- 
plored me,  appealed  to  my  generous  disposition,  and 
ended  by  overruling  all  my  objections;  I  agreed  to  the 
indelicate  proposal. 

I  had  sworn  never  again  to  enter  the  house  in  which  the 
drama  had  been  enacted.  But  the  widower  had  removed. 
He  had  taken  rooms  not  far  from  us ;  I  was  glad  to  be 
spared  a  renewed  visit  to  the  old  place,  and  accompanied 
the  divorced  wife  on  her  visit  to  her  late  husband. 

The  mourning,  the  evident  grief,  the  grave  and  gloomy 
appearance  of  the  house  all  combined  to  rob  our  meeting 
of  any  trace  of  strangeness  or  embarrassment. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  159 

The  habit  of  seeing  these  two  people  together  was  a 
bar  to  any  feeling  of  jealousy  on  my  part,  and  the  tactful 
and  cordial  bearing  of  the  Baron  helped  to  reassure  me 
completely. 

We  dined  together,  we  drank  and  played  cards  just  as 
in  the  old  days. 

On  the  following  day  we  met  in  my  room;  on  a  third 
evening  at  Marie's,  who  was  now  living  in  the  house  of  an 
old  lady.  We  fell  into  our  former  habits,  and  Marie  was 
happy  to  see  us  together.  It  comforted  her,  and  since 
we  had  ourselves  under  perfect  control  nobody  was 
offended  or  aggrieved.  The  Baron  looked  upon  us  as 
being  secretly  engaged,  his  love  for  Marie  seemed  to  be 
dead.  Sometimes  he  even  talked  of  his  unhappy  love- 
affair,  for  Matilda  was  carefully  watched  by  her  father 
and  out  of  his  reach.  .  .  .  Marie  teased  and  comforted 
him  alternately,  and  he  made  no  secret,  now,  of  his  true 
feelings. 

At  parting  their  intimacy  was  more  marked,  but  instead 
of  rousing  my  jealousy  it  merely  excited  my  disgust. 

One  day  Marie  told  me  that  she  had  been  to  see  the 
Baron,  and  stayed  to  have  dinner  with  him;  she  justified 
her  visit  by  saying  that  she  had  to  talk  to  him  on  urgent 
business  in  connection  with  her  daughter's  estate  which 
the  Baron  inherited. 

I  objected  to  this  want  of  taste;  in  fact,  I  told  her  that 
her  conduct  was  downright  indecent.  She  burst  out 
laughing,  teasingly  reminded  me  of  my  former  railings 
against  prejudice,  and  in  the  end  I  joined  in  her  laughter. 
It  was  ridiculous,  it  was  unusual,  but  it  was  good  form 
to  laugh  at  everything,  and  a  splendid  thing  to  see  virtue 
rewarded. 

After  that  she  visited  the  Baron  whenever  she  pleased, 
and  I  believe  he  helped  her  to  study  her  part. 

Up  to  now  we  had  had  no  quarrels,  for  any  jealousy  I 


160  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

might  have  felt  disappeared  as  soon  as  I  got  used  to  the 
state  of  things,  and  I  never  quite  lost  the  old  illusion  that 
they  were  husband  and  wife.  But  one  evening  Marie 
came  to  see  me  alone.  On  helping  her  to  remove  her 
cloak  I  noticed  that  her  dress  was  somewhat  deranged. 
It  roused  my  suspicions.  She  sat  down  on  the  sofa  opposite 
the  looking-glass,  talking  volubly  all  the  time.  Her  con- 
versation struck  me  as  forced,  she  cast  furtive  glances  at 
her  reflection  and  stealthily  tried  to  smooth  her  hair. 

A  horrible  thought  flashed  into  my  mind.  Unable  to 
control  my  agitation,  I  exclaimed — 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  With  Gustav." 

"  What  did  you  do  there  ?  " 

She  started,  but  quickly  suppressing  her  emotion,  she 
replied — 

"  I  was  studying  my  part." 

"  It's  a  lie !  " 

She  made  an  angry  exclamation;  she  accused  me  of 
being  absurdly  jealous,  deluged  me  with  explanations.  I 
wavered,  and  as  we  were  invited  out  that  evening  I  had 
to  postpone  all  further  investigation. 

Thinking  of  this  incident  to-day,  I  would  swear  a 
solemn  oath  that  she  committed  bigamy  in  those  days, 
to  say  the  least  of  it.  But  at  that  time  I  was  completely 
deceived  by  her  trickery.  What  had  happened?  .  .  . 
Probably  this — 

She  had  dined  alone  with  the  Baron;  they  had  had 
coffee  and  liqueurs;  she  was  seized  with  that  after-dinner 
lassitude;  the  Baron  advised  her  to  lie  down  on  the  sofa 
and  rest  awhile,  a  proposal  which  did  not  displease  her 
.  .  .  and  the  rest  followed  as  a  matter  of  course.  Soli- 
tude, complete  confidence,  old  memories,  increased 
temptation,  and  the  lonely  man  succumbed.  Why  deny 
themselves,  as  long  as  no  one  knew?     She  was  her  own 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  161 

mistress^  since  she  had  never  taken  money  from  her  lover, 
and  to  break  a  promise — what  is  that  to  a  woman !  Per- 
haps she  already  regretted  his  loss;  perhaps  she  had  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  understood  her  needs  better 
than  I ;  perhaps,  now  that  her  curiosity  was  satisfied,  she 
yearned  again  for  the  stronger  man;  for  in  the  struggle 
for  the  love  of  a  woman  the  sensitive  and  delicate  lover, 
may  he  be  never  so  ardent,  is  always  beaten  by  the  athlete. 

It  was  more  than  probable  that  she  gave  herself  to 
him,  more  especially  as  she  was  free  from  responsibility 
and  her  woman's  heart  pitied  the  lonely  man.  Had  I 
been  in  the  place  of  the  offended  husband  should  I  have 
acted  otherwise?     I  hardly  think  so. 

But  since  the  beloved  lips  never  tired  of  using  the  sub- 
lime words  "  honour,"  "  decency,"  "  morality,"  I  refused 
to  harbour  any  suspicions. 

For  these  reasons  a  woman  will  always  get  the  better 
of  her  lover,  if  he  be  a  man  of  honour.  He  flatters  him- 
self that  he  is  the  only  one,  because  he  wants"  to  be  the 
only  one,  and  the  wish  is  father  to  the  thought. 

To-day  Marie's  loyalty  seems  to  me  in  the  highest 
degree  improbable,  incredible,  impossible. 

It  was  also  a  significant  fact  that  the  Baron,  when  we 
were  alone  together,  always  manifested  a  lively  interest 
in  other  women;  and  one  evening,  after  dining  with  him 
at  a  restaurant,  he  went  so  far  as  to  ask  me  for  certain 
addresses.    Doubtless  this  was  done  in  order  to  deceive  me. 

Another  thing  which  struck  me  was  his  attitude  towards 
Marie;  he  treated  her  with  a  somewhat  contemptuous 
courtesy ;  she  behaved  like  a  cocotte,  and  her  passion  for 
me  seemed  to  be  more  and  more  on  the  wane. 


Ill 

At  last  Marie  appeared  before  the  footlights.  She 
was  a  success  for  many  and  complex  reasons.  Firstly, 
everybody  was  curious  to  see  a  baroness  on  the  stage; 
secondly,  the  middle-classes  were  sympathetic  because  they 
delighted  in  the  blow  dealt  to  aristocratic  prestige  by 
this  divorce;  the  bachelors,  the  sexless,  the  enemies  of 
matrimonial  slavery,  lavished  flowers  on  her;  not  to  for- 
get the  friends  and  relations  of  the  great  actor,  who  were 
interested  in  her  because  he  had  been  her  teacher  and  was 
bringing  her  out. 

After  the  performance  the  Baron  asked  both  of  us, 
and  the  old  lady  with  whom  Marie  was  living,  to  supper. 

Everybody  was  charmed  with  the  result  and  intoxicated 
with  the  success.  I  was  displeased  with  Marie's  appear- 
ance because  she  had  not  removed  her  make-up,  and  her 
hair  was  still  dressed  as  she  had  worn  it  on  the  stage. 
She  was  no  longer  the  virginal  mother  with  whom  I  had 
fallen  in  love,  but  an  actress  with  insolent  gestures,  bad 
manners,  boastful,  overbearing,  behaving  with  a  kind  of 
oflFensive  foppishness. 

In  her  imagination  she  had  scaled  the  highest  summits 
of  art,  and  she  dismissed  all  my  remarks,  my  suggestions, 
with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders  or  a  condescending,  "  My 
dear,  you  know  nothing  about  it." 

The  Baron  wore  a  look  of  dejection,  like  an  unhappy 
lover.  But  for  my  presence  he  would  have  kissed  her. 
Under  the  influence  of  an  incredible  quantity  of  Madeira 
he  opened  his  heart  to  us,  and  regretted  that  art,  the 
divine,  should  claim  so  many  cruel  sacrifices. 

162 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  163 

The  press — which  had  been  well  managed — confirmed 
her  success,  and  an  engagement  seemed  likely  to  follow. 

Two  photographers  fought  for  the  honour  of  being 
permitted  to  photograph  the  debutante.  A  successful 
little  magazine  sold  the  portrait  of  the  new  star,  together 
with  her  biography. 

What  struck  me  most  in  looking  at  these  new  portraits 
was  the  fact  that  not  one  of  them  resembled  the  old  one 
in  my  possession.  Was  it  possible  that  her  character,  the 
expression  of  her  face,  could  have  changed  in  so  short  a 
time,  in  a  year  .J*  Or  was  she  a  different  woman  when  she 
reflected  the  love,  the  tenderness,  the  compassion  which 
my  eyes  radiated  as  soon  as  I  looked  at  her?  The  expres- 
sion of  her  face  on  these  portraits  was  vulgar,  hard  and 
insolent,  every  feature  expressed  a  cruel  coquetry,  a 
challenge.  One  pose  in  particular  disgusted  me.  She 
was  represented  leaning  over  the  back  of  a  low  chair  in 
such  a  manner  that  the  beholder  could  see  her  bosom, 
which  was  only  partly  hidden  by  a  fan  resting  against  the 
upper  part  of  her  dress.  Her  eyes  seemed  riveted  on  the 
eyes  of  an  invisible  person,  not  myself,  for  my  love, 
coupled  with  respect  and  tenderness,  never  caressed  her 
with  the  shameless  sensuality  which  roused  in  her  the 
passion  of  a  wanton.  The  photograph  reminded  me  of 
those  obscene  pictures  which  are  furtively  offered  to  the 
passers-by  at  the  doors  of  low  coffee-houses  under  cover 
of  the  night. 

When  she  offered  me  this  portrait  I  refused  to  accept  it. 

"What!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  piteous  voice,  which  for 
a  moment  revealed  her  carefully  concealed  want  of  true 
refinement,  "you  refuse  my  photograph.''  Then  you  don't 
love  me  any  more !  " 

When  a  woman  says  to  her  lover,  "  You  don't  love 
me  any  more,"  she  has  already  ceased  to  love  him. 

I  knew  from  this   moment  that  her  love  was  growing 


164  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

cold.  She  realised  that  her  feeble  soul  had  drawn  from 
me  the  courage,  the  boldness  necessary  to  arrive  at  her 
goal,  and  she  wanted  to  be  rid  of  the  troublesome 
creditor.  She  had  been  stealing  my  thoughts  while  she 
seemed  to  scorn  them  with  her  contemptuous,  "  You 
know  nothing  about  it,  my  dear !  " 

This  uncultured  woman,  whose  only  accomplishment  was 
her  fluent  French,  whose  education  had  been  neglected, 
who  had  been  brought  up  in  the  country,  who  knew 
nothing  of  literature  or  the  stage,  to  whom  I  had  given 
the  first  lessons  in  the  correct  pronunciation  of  Swedish, 
to  whom  I  had  explained  the  secrets  of  metrics  and 
prosody,  treated  me  as  if  I  were  an  idiot. 

I  advised  her  to  select  for  her  second  appearance  in 
public,  which  was  to  take  place  shortly,  the  principal  part 
in  the  best  melodrama  on  the  repertoire.  She  refused. 
But  a  few  days  later  she  informed  me  casually  that  the 
idea  had  occurred  to  her  to  choose  this  particular  part. 
I  analysed  it  for  her,  sketched  the  costumes,  drew  her 
attention  to  all  the  points  to  be  made,  showed  her  how  to 
make  her  entrances  and  exits,  and  pointed  out  to  her  the 
features  which  should  be  sj>ecially  emphasized. 

A  secret  struggle  went  on  between  the  Baron  and  my- 
self. He,  who  stage-managed  the  performances  of  the 
Royal  Guards,  instructed  the  play-acting  soldiers,  fondly 
imagining  himself  to  be  better  acquainted  with  theatrical 
affairs  than  I  was.  Marie  valued  his  so-called  hints  more 
highly;  accepted  him  as  her  authority,  scorned  my  sug- 
gestions. Oh !  the  vileness  of  his  conception  of 
aesthetics !  He  extolled  the  commonplace,  the  vulgar,  the 
banal,  because,  as  he  said,  it  was  true  nature. 

I  admitted  his  arguments  as  far  as  modern  comedy  was 
concerned,  for  here  the  characters  are  depicted  among 
the  thousand  details  of  everyday  life.  But  his  theory 
became  impossible  when  applied,  for  instance,  to  English 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  165 

melodrama;  great  passions  cannot  be  expressed  in  the 
same  way  as  the  whims  and  witticisms  of  a  drawing-room 
conversation. 

But  this  distinction  was  too  subtle  for  a  mediocre  brain, 
which  could  only  generalise  and  assume  that  because  a 
certain  thing  happened  in  one  case,  it  must  infallibly  be- 
come the  rule  and  happen  in  all  others. 

On  the  day  before  her  appearance  Marie  showed  me 
her  dresses.  In  spite  of  my  opposition  and  entreaties 
she  had  chosen  a  dull  grey  material,  most  unbecoming  to 
her  because  it  gave  her  complexion  an  ashen  hue.  Her 
only  reply  had  been  a  curt  repulse  and  the  truly  feminine 
argument — 

"  But  Mrs.  X.,  the  great  tragedienne,  created  the  part 
in  a  grey  dress !  " 

"  True,  but  Mrs.  X.  is  not  fair  like  you!  And  what  suits 
a  dark  woman  doesn't  always  suit  a  fair  one." 

She  had  not  been  able  to  see  my  point  and  had  only 
been  angry  with  me. 

I  had  prophesied  a  fiasco,  and  her  second  appearance 
really  was  a  dead  failure. 

The  tears,  the  reproaches,  the  insults  even  which 
followed ! 

As  misfortune  would  have  it,  a  week  later  the  great 
actress  appeared  in  the  same  part,  in  a  special  perform- 
ance, and  received  cart-loads  of  flowers. 

Of  course  Marie  was  furious  with  me  and  made  me 
responsible  for  her  failure,  simply  because  I  had  pro- 
phesied it;  the  grief  and  disappointment  brought  her  still 
nearer  to  the  Baron;  it  drew  them  together  with  the 
sympathy  which  always  unites  inferior  characters. 

I,  the  man  of  letters,  the  playwright,  the  dramatic 
critic,  at  home  in  all  the  literatures,  through  my  work 
and  position  at  the  library  in  correspondence  with  the 
finest  intellects  of  the  world,  I  was  cast  aside  like  a  worn- 


166  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

out  garment^  treated  like  an  idiot,  considered  of  no  more 
importance  than  a  footman  or  a  dog. 

But  although  her  second  appearance  had  been  a  failure, 
she  was  engaged  with  a  pay  of  2,400  crowns  ^  per  annum. 
She  had  acquitted  herself  fairly  well,  but  she  had  no 
great  career  before  her.  She  would  never  rise  above  the 
level  of  a  "  useful  actress  " ;  she  would  be  cast  for  small 
parts,  society  women,  mere  dressed-up  dolls,  and  spend 
her  days  at  the  dressmaker's.  Three,  four,  sometimes 
five  different  dresses  on  one  and  the  same  evening  would 
swallow  up  her  insufficient  pay. 

What  bitter  disappointments,  what  heart-rending 
scenes,  as  she  watched  her  parts  grow  smaller  and  smaller, 
until  they  consisted  of  a  few  sentences  only.  Her  room 
had  the  appearance  of  a  dressmaker's  workshop,  littered 
with  dress  materials,  patterns  and  millinery.  The  mother, 
the  real  grande  dame  who  had  left  her  drawing-rooms, 
renounced  dress  and  fashion,  to  devote  her  life  to  a 
lofty  ideal  of  art,  had  become  a  bungling  seamstress 
who  worked  at  her  sewing  machine  till  midnight,  so  that 
she  might  play  before  an  indifferent  bourgeoisie  for  a  few 
minutes  the  part  of  a  society  woman. 

The  waste  of  time  behind  the  scenes  during  rehearsal, 
when  she  stood  in  the  wings  for  hours  waiting  for  her 
cue  which  should  bring  her  before  the  footlights  to  say 
two  or  three  words,  developed  in  her  a  taste  for  gossip, 
for  idle  talk  and  risky  stories;  it  killed  all  honest  striving 
to  rise  above  her  condition;  the  soul  was  shorn  of  its 
wings  and  was  flung  to  earth,  into  the  gutter. 

The  disintegrating  process  went  on.  She  continued  to 
deteriorate,  and  after  her  dresses  had  been  remodelled 
again  and  again  for  want  of  means  to  buy  new  ones,  she 
was  deprived  of  even  her  small  parts  and  degraded  to  the 
role  of  a  walker  on.  Poverty  was  staring  her  in  the  face, 
and  her  mother,  a  modern  Cassandra,  made  life  a  burden 

1  A  Swedish  crown  is  equivalent  to  Is,  4d, 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  167 

to  her;  the  public,  well  acquainted  with  her  sensational 
divorce,  and  the  premature  death  of  her  little  girl,  cried 
out  against  the  unfaithful  wife,  the  unnatural  mother. 
It  was  but  a  question  of  time  and  the  manager  of  the 
theatre  would  not  be  able  to  protect  her  against  the 
antipathy  of  the  audience;  the  great  actor,  her  teacher, 
disowned  her  and  admitted  his  mistake  in  believing  in  her 
talent. 

So  much  ado,  so  much  unhappiness,  to  humour  a  woman 
who  did  not  know  her  own  mind. 

And  still  matters  grew  worse,  for  Marie's  mother  sud- 
denly died  of  heart  disease,  of  a  broken  heart,  as  it  was 
called,  broken  with  sorrow,  caused  by  her  unnatural 
daughter.  Again  my  honour  was  involved.  I  was  furious 
with  the  injustice  of  the  world,  and  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  vindicate  her  honour.  I  proposed  the  foundation 
of  a  weekly  paper,  for  the  discussion  of  the  drama,  music, 
literature  and  art,  and  she,  thankful  now  for  every  effort 
to  help  her,  gratefully  accepted  my  proposal.  In  this 
paper  she  was  to  make  her  debut  as  a  critic  and  writer 
of  feuilletons,  and  so  gradually  become  acquainted  with 
publishers.  She  sunk  two  hundred  crowns  in  the  enter- 
prise. I  undertook  the  editorial  work  and  proof-reading. 
Since  I  was  well  aware  of  my  complete  incapacity  as  a 
business  manager,  I  left  her  to  attend  to  the  sale  and 
advertisements,  the  proceeds  of  which  she  was  to  share 
with  the  manager  of  her  theatre,  who  was  also  the  pro- 
prietor of  a  news  stall. 

The  first  number  was  set  and  looked  very  well  indeed. 
It  contained  a  leader  written  by  one  of  our  rising  artists; 
an  original  article  from  a  correspondent  in  Rome;  another 
one  from  Paris;  a  critique  on  a  musical  performance 
by  a  distinguished  writer  and  contributor  to  one  of 
the  first  Stockholm  papers;  a  literary  review  written 
by  myself;  a  feuilleton  and  reports  on  first  nights  by 
Marie. 


168  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

It  would  have  been  impossible  to  improve  the  arrange- 
ments made;  the  great  thing  was  to  publish  the  first 
number  at  the  time  advertised.  Everything  was  ready, 
but  at  the  last  moment  we  lacked  the  necessary  funds  and 
credit. 

Alas !  I  had  put  my  fate  into  the  hands  of  a  woman ! 
On  the  day  of  the  publication  she  remained  calmly  in  bed 
and  slept  till  broad  daylight. 

Convinced  that  everything  was  well,  I  went  to  town, 
but  everywhere  on  my  way  I  was  greeted  with  sarcastic 
smiles. 

"  Well,  where  is  the  wonderful  paper  to  be  had  ?  "  I 
was  asked  the  question  dozens  of  times  by  the  numerous 
people  interested  in  its  appearance. 

"  Everywhere !  " 

"  Or  nowhere !  " 

I  went  into  a  newspaper  shop. 

"  We  haven't  received  it  yet,"  said  the  assistant  behind 
the  counter. 

I  rushed  to  the  printing-office.  It  had  not  left  the 
press  yet. 

A  complete  failure !  We  had  an  angry  scene.  Her 
inborn  carelessness  and  ignorance  of  the  publishing  trade 
exonerated  her  to  some  extent.  She  had  completely  relied 
on  her  friend,  the  theatrical  manager. 

The  two  hundred  crowns  were  gone.  My  time,  my 
honour,  the  eager  thought  I  had  devoted  to  the  scheme, 
all  were  wasted. 

In  this  general  shipwreck  one  haunting  thought  re- 
mained: our  condition  was  hopeless. 

I  proposed  that  we  should  die  together.  What  was  to 
become  of  us?  She  was  quite  broken  down  and  I  had 
not  the  strength  to  lift  her  up  a  second  time. 

"  Let  us  die,"  I  said  to  her.  "  Don't  let  us  degenerate 
into  walking  corpses  and  obstruct  the  path  of  the  living." 

She  refused. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  169 

What  a  coward  you  were,  my  proud  Marie!  And 
how  cruel  it  was  of  you  to  make  me  a  witness  of  the 
spectacle  of  your  downfall,  the  laughter  and  sneers  of 
the  onlookers ! 

I  spent  the  evening  at  my  club,  and  when  I  went  home 
that  night  I  was  intoxicated. 

I  went  to  see  her  early  on  the  following  morning.  The 
alcohol  seemed  to  have  made  me  more  clear-sighted. 
For  the  first  time  I  noticed  the  change  in  her.  Her  room 
was  untidy,  her  dress  slovenly,  her  beloved  little  feet  were 
thrust  into  a  pair  of  old  slippers,  the  stockings  hung  in 
wrinkles  round  her  ankles.     What  squalor! 

Her  vocabulary  had  become  enriched  by  some  ugly 
theatrical  slang;  her  gestures  were  reminiscent  of  the 
street,  her  eyes  looked  at  me  with  hatred,  an  expression 
of  bitterness  drew  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

She  remained  stooping  over  her  work,  without  looking 
at  me,  as  if  she  were  thinking  evil  thoughts. 

Suddenly,  without  raising  her  head,  she  said  hoarsely — 

"  Do  you  know.  Axel,  what  a  woman  is  justified  in 
expecting  from  the  man  with  whom  she  is  on  intimate 
terms,  such  as  we  are  ?  " 

Thunderstruck,  unwilling  to  trust  my  ears,  I  faltered — 

"  No     .     .     .     what? " 

"  What  does  a  woman  expect  from  her  lover  ?  " 

"  Love !  " 

"  And  what  else?  " 

"  Money !  " 

The  vulgar  word  saved  her  from  further  questioning, 
and  I  left  her,  convinced  that  I  had  guessed  correctly. 

"  Prostitute !  Prostitute !  "  I  said  to  myself,  stumb- 
ling through  the  streets,  the  autumnal  appearance  of 
which  depressed  my  spirits.  We  had  arrived  at  the  last 
stage.  .  .  .  All  that  remained  to  do  was  to  make  payment 
for  pleasures  received,  to  admit  the  trade  without  shame. 

If   she  had  been  poor,  at  least,  suffering  from  want! 


170  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

But  she  had  just  come  into  her  mother's  money,  the 
entire  furniture  of  a  house,  and  a  number  of  shares,  some 
of  doubtful  value,  but  nevertheless  representing  two  or 
three  thousand  crowns;  moreover,  she  was  still  receiving 
her  pay  regularly  from  the  theatre. 

I  could  not  understand  her  attitude  .  .  .  until  sud- 
denly I  remembered  her  landlady  and  intimate  friend. 

She  was  an  abominable,  elderly  woman,  with  the  sus- 
picious manners  of  a  procuress;  nobody  knew  how  she 
lived;  she  was  always  in  debt,  yet  always  extravagantly 
and  strikingly  dressed;  somehow  she  managed  to  in- 
gratiate herself  with  people,  and  she  always  ended  by 
asking  them  for  a  small  loan,  eternally  bewailing  her 
miserable  existence.  A  shady  character,  who  hated  me 
because  I  saw  through  her. 

Now  I  suddenly  remembered  an  incident  which  had 
happened  two  or  three  months  ago,  but  which  had  not 
interested  me  at  the  time.  The  woman  had  extracted  a 
promise  from  a  friend  of  Marie's  to  lend  her  a  thousand 
crowns.  The  promise  had  remained  a  promise.  Event- 
ually Marie,  giving  way  to  pressure  and  anxious  to  save 
the  reputation  of  her  friend,  who  was  badly  compromised, 
guaranteed  to  find  the  money,  and  actually  raised  the 
sum.  But  instead  of  gratitude  she  reaped  nothing  but 
reproaches  from  her  friend,  and  when  it  came  to  ex- 
planations, the  old  woman  insisted  on  her  perfect  innocence 
and  laid  the  full  blame  on  Marie's  shoulders.  I  had  at  the 
time  expressed  my  dislike  and  distrust  of  her,  and  urged 
Marie  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  an  individual  whose 
manipulations  came  very  close  to  blackmail. 

But  she  had  exonerated  her  false  friend  at  the  time. 
.  .  .  Later  on  she  told  a  different  story  altogether,  talked 
of  a  misunderstanding;  in  the  end  the  whole  incident 
became  "  an  invention  of  my  evil  imagination." 

Possibly  this  woman  had  suggested  to  Marie  the  vile 
idea   of   "  presenting  me   with   the   bill."      It   must    have 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  171 

been  so,  for  the  suggestion  had  not  been  made  easily  and 
was  most  unlike  her.  I  tried  to  make  myself  believe  it, 
hope  it. 

If  she  had  merely  asked  me  for  the  money  which  she 
had  invested  in  the  paj>er,  the  money  which  had  been 
lost  through  her  fault — that  would  have  been  female 
mathematics.  Or,  if  she  had  insisted  on  an  immediate 
marriage!  But  she  had  no  wish  to  be  married,  I  was 
sure  of  that.  It  was  a  question  of  paying  for  the  love, 
the  kisses  she  had  given  me.  It  was  payment  she  de- 
manded. .  .  .  Supposing  I  sent  her  in  my  bill:  for  my 
work  according  to  time  and  quality,  for  the  waste  of 
brain  power,  of  nerve  force,  for  my  heart's  blood,  my 
name,  my  honour,  my  sufferings;  the  bill  for  my  career, 
ruined,  perhaps,  for  ever. 

But  no,  it  was  her  privilege  to  send  in  the  first  bill;  I 
took  no  exception  to  that. 

I  spent  my  evening  at  a  restaurant,  wandered  through 
the  streets  and  pondered  the  problem  of  degradation. 
Why  is  it  so  painful  to  watch  a  person  sink?  It  must 
be  because  there  is  something  unnatural  in  it,  for  nature 
desnands  personal  progress,  evolution,  and  every  backward 
step  means  the  disintegration  of  force. 

The  same  argument  applies  to  the  life  of  the  community 
where  everybody  strives  to  reach  the  material  or  spiritual 
summits.  Thence  comes  the  tragic  feeling  which  seizes 
us  in  the  contemplation  of  failure,  tragic  as  autumn,  sick- 
ness and  death.  This  woman,  who  had  not  yet  reached 
her  thirtieth  year,  had  been  young,  beautiful,  frank,  hon- 
est, amiable,  strong  and  well-bred;  in  two  short  years  she 
had  been  so  degraded,  had  fallen  so  low. 

For  a  moment  I  tried  to  blame  myself;  the  thought  that 
the  fault  was  mine  would  have  been  a  comfort  to  me,  for 
it  would  have  made  her  shame  seem  less.  But  try  as  I 
would,  I  did  not  succeed,  for  had  I  not  taught  her  the  cult 
of  the  beautiful?  the  love  of  high  ideals?  the  longing  to  do 


17«         THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

noble  acts?  While  she  adopted  the  vulgarities  of  her 
theatrical  friends,  I  had  improved,  I  had  acquired  the 
manners  and  language  of  fashionable  society,  I  had  learned 
that  self-control  which  keeps  emotion  in  check  and  is  con- 
sidered the  hall-mark  of  good  breeding.  I  had  become 
chaste  in  love,  anxious  to  spare  modesty,  not  to  offend 
against  beauty  and  seemliness,  for  thus  only  can  we  for- 
get the  brutality  of  an  act  which  to  my  mind  is  much  more 
spiritual  than  physical. 

I  was  rough  sometimes,  it  is  true,  but  never  vulgar.  I 
killed,  but  never  wounded.  I  called  a  spade  a  spade,  but 
never  hinted  and  insinuated;  my  ideas  were  my  own, 
prompted  by  the  situations  in  which  I  happened  to  find 
myself;  I  never  tried  to  dazzle  with  the  witticisms  of 
musical  comedies  or  comic  papers. 

I  loved  cleanliness,  purity,  beauty  in  my  daily  surround- 
ings; I  preferred  to  refuse  an  invitation  to  accepting  it 
and  appearing  badly  dressed.  I  never  received  her  in 
dressing-gown  and  slippers ;  I  may  not  always  have  been 
able  to  offer  a  guest  more  than  bread  and  butter  and  a 
glass  of  beer,  but  there  was  always  a  clean  table-cloth. 

I  had  not  set  her  a  bad  example;  it  was  not  my  fault 
that  she  had  deteriorated.  Her  love  for  me  was  dead, 
therefore  she  did  not  want  to  please  me  any  longer.  She 
belonged  to  the  public,  it  was  that  fact  which  had  made 
her  the  wanton  who  could  calmly  present  her  bill  for  so 
many  nights  of  pleasure.   .    .    . 

During  the  next  few  days  I  shut  myself  up  in  my  library. 
I  mourned  for  my  love,  my  splendid,  foolish,  divine  love. 
All  was  over,  and  the  battlefield  on  which  the  struggle 
had  raged  was  silent  and  still.  Two  dead  and  so  many 
wounded  to  satisfy  a  woman  who  was  not  worth  a  pair  of 
old  shoes !  If  her  passion  had  at  least  been  roused  by  the 
longing  for  motherhood,  if  she  had  been  guided  by  the 
unrealised  instincts  which  force  those  unfortunates  who  are 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  173 

mothers  on  the  streets !  But  she  detested  children ;  in  her 
eyes  motherhood  was  degrading.  Unnatural  and  perverse 
woman  that  she  was,  she  debased  the  maternal  instinct  to 
a  vulgar  pleasure.  Her  race  was  doomed  to  extinction  be- 
cause she  was  a  degenerate,  in  the  process  of  dissolution; 
but  she  concealed  this  dissolution  under  high-sounding 
phrases,  proclaimed  that  it  was  our  duty  to  live  for  higher 
ends,  for  the  good  of  humanity  at  large. 

I  loathed  her  now,  I  tried  to  forget  her.  I  paced  the 
room,  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  before  the  rows  of  book- 
shelves, unable  to  rid  myself  of  the  accursed  night-mare 
which  haunted  me.  I  had  no  desire  for  her,  or  for  her  com- 
pany, for  she  inspired  me  with  disgust;  and  yet  a  deep 
compassion,  an  almost  paternal  tenderness  made  me  feel 
responsible  for  her  future.  I  knew  that  if  I  left  her  to  her 
own  devices,  she  would  go  under,  and  end  either  as  the 
mistress  of  her  late  husband,  or  the  mistress  of  all  the 
world. 

I  was  powerless  to  lift  her  up,  powerless  to  struggle  out 
of  the  morass  into  which  we  had  fallen.  I  resigned  myself 
to  remain  tied  to  her,  even  if  I  had  to  witness  and  share 
in  her  downward  course.  She  was  dragging  me  down 
with  her — life  had  become  a  burden  to  me,  I  had  lost  all 
enthusiasm  for  my  work.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation, 
hope,  were  dead.  I  wanted  nothing,  desired  nothing.  I 
had  developed  into  a  complete  misanthrope;  I  frequently 
turned  away  from  the  door  of  my  restaurant  and,  forgoing 
dinner,  returned  home,  threw  myself  on  my  sofa  and  buried 
myself  under  my  rugs.  There  I  lay,  like  a  wild  beast 
that  has  received  its  death  wound,  rigid,  with  an  empty 
brain,  unable  to  think  or  sleep,  waiting  for  the  end. 

One  day,  however,  I  was  sitting  in  a  back  room  of  my 
restaurant,  a  private  room  where  lovers  meet  and  shabby 
coats  hide  themselves,  both  afraid  of  the  daylight.     All 


174  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

at  once  a  well-known  voice  woke  me  from  my  reverie:  a 
man  wished  me  a  good  afternoon. 

He  was  an  unsuccessful  architect,  a  lost  member  of  our 
late  Bohemia,  which  was  now  scattered  to  all  the  winds. 

"  You  are  still  among  the  living,  then?  "  he  said,  sitting 
down  opposite  me. 

"  I  am   .    .    .   but  what  about  you?  " 

"  I'm  so-so  .  .  .  oflf  to  Paris  to-morrow  .  .  .  some 
fool  left  me  ten  thousand  crowns." 

"  Lucky  dog!  " 

"  Unfortunately  I  have  to  devour  it  all  by  myself   ..." 

"  The  misfortune  is  not  so  great,  I  know  a  set  of  teeth 
ready  to  help  you." 

"  Really  ?    Would  you  care  to  come  ?    .    .    . " 

"  Only  too  glad  to !  " 

"  Is  it  a  bargain  then?  " 

"  It's  a  bargain." 

"  To-morrow  night,  by  the  six  o'clock  train,  to 
Paris.    ..." 

"  And  afterwards  ?    .    .    . " 

"  A  bullet  through  the  head !  " 

"  The  devil !     Where  did  you  get  this  idea  from  ?  " 

"From  your  face!     Suicide  is  plainly  written  on  it!" 

"  Haruspex !    Well,  pack  up  and  come  along !  " 

W^hen  I  saw  Marie  that  night  I  told  her  the  good  news. 
She  listened  with  every  appearance  of  pleasure,  wished 
me  a  pleasant  time,  and  repeated  again  and  again  that  it 
would  do  me  a  world  of  good,  would  refresh  me  mentally. 
In  short,  she  seemed  well  pleased,  and  overwhelmed  me 
with  affection,  which  touched  me  deeply. 

We  spent  the  evening  together,  talking  of  the  days 
which  had  gone  by.  We  made  no  plans,  for  we  had  lost 
faith  in  the  future.  Then  we  parted.  .  .  .  For  ever? 
.  .  .  The  question  was  not  mooted;  we  silently  agreed  to 
leave  it  to  chance  to  reunite  us  or  not. 


IV 

The  journey  really  rejuvenated  me.  It  stirred  up  the 
memories  of  my  early  youth  and  I  felt  a  mad  joy  surging 
in  my  heart;  I  wanted  to  forget  the  last  two  years  of 
misery,  and  not  for  one  single  moment  did  I  feel  inclined 
to  speak  of  Marie.  The  whole  tragedy  of  the  divorce  was 
like  a  repulsive  heap  of  offal,  from  which  I  was  eager  to  fly 
without  turning  round.  I  could  not  help  smiling  in  my 
sleeve  at  times,  like  a  fugitive  who  is  firmly  resolved  not 
to  be  taken  again;  I  felt  like  a  debtor  who  has  escaped 
from  his  creditors  and  is  hiding  in  a  distant  country. 

For  two  weeks  I  revelled  in  the  Paris  theatres,  museums 
and  libraries.  I  received  no  letters  from  Marie,  and  was 
beginning  to  hope  that  she  had  got  over  our  separation 
and  that  everything  was  well  in  the  best  of  all  possible 
worlds. 

But  after  a  certain  time  I  grew  tired  of  wandering  about, 
and  sated  with  so  many  new  and  strong  impressions; 
things  began  to  lose  their  interest.  I  stayed  in  my  room 
and  read  the  papers,  oppressed  by  vague  apprehensions, 
by  an  inexplicable  uneasiness. 

The  vision  of  the  white  woman,  the  Fata  Morgana  of 
the  virginal  mother  began  to  haunt  me  and  disturbed  my 
peace.  The  picture  of  the  insolent  actress  was  wiped  out 
of  my  memory;  I  remembered  only  the  Baroness,  young, 
beautiful;  her  fragile  body  transfigured  and  clothed  with 
the  beauty  of  the  Land  of  Promise,  dreamed  of  by  the 
ascetes. 

I  was  indulging  in  those  painful  and  yet  delicious  dreams 

175 


176  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

when  I  received  a  letter  from  Marie,  in  which  she  informed 
me  in  heartbreaking  words  that  she  was  about  to  become 
a  mother,  and  implored  me  to  save  her  from  dishonour. 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  I  packed  my  portmanteau. 
I  left  Paris  by  the  first  train  for  Stockholm.  I  was  going 
to  make  her  my  wife. 

I  had  no  doubt  about  the  paternity  of  the  expected  baby. 
I  looked  upon  the  result  of  our  irregular  relations  as  a 
blessing,  as  the  end  of  our  sufferings;  but  also  as  a  fact 
which  burdened  us  with  a  heavy  responsibility,  which 
might  spell  ruin;  at  the  same  time,  however,  it  was  the 
starting  point  into  the  unknown;  something  quite  new. 
Moreover,  I  always  had  a  very  high  conception  of  married 
life;  I  considered  it  the  only  possible  form  under  which 
two  persons  of  opposite  sex  could  live  together.  Life 
together  held  no  terror  for  me.  My  love  received  a  fresh 
stimulus  from  the  fact  that  Marie  was  about  to  become  a 
mother;  she  arose  purified,  ennobled,  from  the  mire  of  our 
illicit  relationship. 

On  my  arrival  at  Stockholm  she  received  me  very  un- 
graciously and  accused  me  of  having  deceived  her.  We 
had  a  painful  scene — but  need  she  have  been  so  surprised 
after  all  that  had  happened  during  the  last  twelve  months .'' 

She  hated  matrimony.  Her  objectionable  friend  had 
impressed  upon  her  that  a  married  woman  is  a  slave  who 
works  for  her  husband  gratuitously.  I  detest  slaves,  and 
therefore  proposed  a  modern  menage,  in  keeping  with  our 
views. 

I  suggested  that  we  should  take  three  rooms,  one  for 
her,  one  for  myself  and  a  common  room.  We  should  neither 
do  our  own  housekeeping,  nor  have  any  servants  in  the 
house.  Dinner  should  be  sent  in  from  a  neighbouring 
restaurant,  breakfast  and  supper  be  prepared  in  the  kitchen 
by  a  daily  servant.    In  this  way  expenses  were  easily  calcu- 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  177 

lated  and  the  causes  for  unpleasantness  reduced  to  a 
minimum. 

To  avoid  every  suspicion  of  living  on  my  wife's  dowry, 
I  suggested  that  it  should  be  settled  on  her.  In  the  North 
a  man  considers  himself  dishonoured  by  the  acceptance  of 
his  wife's  dowry,  which  in  civilised  countries  forms  a  sort 
of  contribution  from  the  wife,  and  creates  in  her  the  illu- 
sion that  her  husband  is  not  keeping  her  entirely.  To  avoid 
a  bad  start  it  is  the  custom  in  Germany  and  Denmark  for 
the  wife  to  furnish  the  house;  this  creates  the  impression 
on  the  husband  that  he  is  living  in  his  wife's  house,  and  in 
the  latter  that  she  is  in  her  own  home,  maintaining  her 
husband. 

Marie  had  recently  inherited  her  mother's  furniture, 
articles  without  any  intrinsic  value,  their  only  claim  to 
distinction  being  a  certain  sentimental  merit  of  old  associa- 
tion and  an  air  of  antiquity.  She  proposed  that  she  should 
furnish  the  rooms,  arguing  that  it  would  be  absurd  to  buy 
furniture  for  three  rooms  when  she  had  enough  for  six. 
I  willingly  agreed  to  her  proposal. 

There  only  remained  one  more  point,  the  main  one,  the 
expected  baby.  We  were  agreed  on  the  necessity  of  keep- 
ing its  birth  a  secret,  and  we  decided  to  place  it  with  a 
reliable  nurse  until  such  time  as  we  could  adopt  it. 

The  wedding  was  fixed  for  the  31st  of  December.  Dur- 
ing the  remaining  two  months  I  strained  every  nerve  to 
make  adequate  provision  for  the  future.  For  this  purpose, 
and  knowing  that  Marie  would  soon  be  compelled  to  re- 
nounce her  wotk  at  the  theatre,  I  renewed  my  literary 
efforts.  I  worked  with  such  ease  that  at  the  end  of  the 
first  month  I  was  able  to  offer  for  publication  a  volume  of 
short  stories,  which  was  accepted  without  difficulty. 

Fortune  favoured  me ;  I  was  appointed  assistant-librarian 
with  a  salary  of  twelve  hundred  crowns,  and  when  the  col- 


178  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

lections  were  transferred  from  the  old  building  to  the  new 
one  I  received  a  bonus  of  six  hundred  crowns.  This  was 
good  fortune  indeed,  and  taken  together  with  other  favour- 
able omens  I  began  to  think  that  a  relentless  fate  had 
tired  of  persecuting  me. 

The  first  and  foremost  magazine  in  Finland  offered  me 
a  post  on  the  staff  as  reviewer  at  fifty  crowns  for  each 
article.  The  official  Swedish  Journal,  published  by  the 
Academy,  gave  me  the  much-coveted  order  to  write  the 
reviews  on  art  for  thirty-five  crowns  the  column.  Besides 
all  this  I  was  entrusted  with  the  revision  of  the  classics 
which  were  being  published  at  that  time. 

All  this  good  fortune  came  to  me  in  those  two  months, 
the  most  fateful  months  of  my  whole  life. 

My  short  stories  appeared  almost  immediately  and  were 
a  great  success.  I  was  hailed  as  a  master  of  this  particular 
style;  it  was  said  that  the  book  was  epoch-making  in  the 
literature  of  Sweden,  because  it  was  the  first  to  introduce 
modern  realism. 

It  was  unspeakable  happiness  to  me  to  lay  at  the  feet 
of  my  poor,  adored  Marie  a  name  which,  apart  from  the 
titles  of  a  royal  secretary,  and  assistant-librarian,  was  be- 
ginning to  be  known,  with  every  prospect  of  a  brilliant 
future. 

Some  day  I  should  be  able  to  give  her  a  fresh  start,  to 
re-open  her  theatrical  career,  which  for  the  moment  had 
been  interrupted  by,  perhaps,  undeserved  misfortune. 

Fortune  was  smiling  at  us  with  a  tear  in  the  eye.    .    .    . 

The  banns  were  published.  I  packed  my  belongings 
and  said  good-bye  to  my  attic,  the  witness  of  many  jt^s 
and  sorrows.  I  marched  into  that  prison  which  all  fear, 
but  which,  perhaps,  we  had  less  cause  to  dread  than  others, 
since  we  had  foreseen  all  dangers,  removed  all  stumbling 
blocks.   .    .    .    And  yet   .    .    . 


PART  III 


What  inexpressible  happiness  it  is  to  be  married!  To 
be  always  near  the  beloved  one,  safe  from  the  prying  eyes 
of  the  fatuous  world.  It  is  as  if  one  had  regained  the  home 
of  one's  childhood  with  its  sheltering  love,  a  safe  port  after 
the  storm,  a  nest  which  awaits  the  little  ones. 

Surrounded  by  nothing  but  objects  which  belonged  to 
her,  mementoes  and  relics  of  her  parents'  house,  I  felt  as 
if  I  were  a  shoot  grafted  on  her  trunk;  the  oil  paintings 
of  her  ancestors  deluded  me  into  thinking  that  I  had  been 
adopted  by  her  family,  because  her  ancestors  will  also  be 
the  ancestors  of  my  children.  I  received  everything  from 
her  hand ;  she  made  me  wear  her  father's  watch  and  chain ; 
my  dinner  was  served  on  her  mother's  china;  she  poured 
on  me  a  continuous  stream  of  trifling  presents,  relics  of  old 
times,  which  had  belonged  to  famous  warriors  celebrated  by 
the  poets  of  her  country,  a  fact  which  impressed  me  not  a 
little.  She  was  the  benefactress,  the  generous  giver  of  all 
these  gifts,  and  I  entirely  forgot  that  it  was  I  who  had  re- 
claimed her,  lifted  her  out  of  the  mire,  made  her  the  wife 
of  a  man  with  brilliant  prospects ;  forgot  that  she  had  been 
an  unknown  actress,  a  divorced  wife  condemned  by  her 
sisters,  a  woman  whom  very  probably  I  had  saved  from 
the  worst. 

What  a  happy  life  we  led!  We  realised  the  dream  of 
freedom  in  marriage.     No   double-bed,  no   common   bed- 

179 


180  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

room,  no  common  dressing-room;  nothing  unseemly  de- 
graded the  sanctity  of  our  union.  Marriage  as  we  under- 
stood and  realised  it  was  a  splendid  institution.  The  tender 
good-nights,  repeated  again  and  again;  the  joy  of  wishing 
each  other  good-morning,  of  asking  how  we  had  slept,  were 
they  not  due  to  the  fact  that  we  occupied  separate  rooms  ? 
How  delightful  were  the  stolen  visits  to  each  other,  the 
courtesy  and  tenderness  which  we  never  forgot!  How 
diflferent  compared  with  the  brazen  boldness,  the  more  or 
less  graciously  endured  brutalities  which  are  as  a  rule  in- 
separable from  matrimony. 

I  got  through  an  amazing  amoimt  of  work,  staying  at 
home  by  the  side  of  my  beloved  wife  who  was  sewing 
tiny  garments  for  the  expected  baby.  What  a  lot  of  time 
I  had  wasted  in  rendezvous  and  idleness  in  the  days  gone 
by! 

After  a  month  of  the  closest  companionship  Marie  was 
laid  up  with  a  premature  confinement.  We  had  a  tiny 
daughter,  hardly  able  to  draw  breath.  Without  a  moment's 
delay  the  baby  was  taken  charge  of  by  a  nurse  whom  we 
knew  to  be  a  decent  woman,  and  two  days  later  it  passed 
away  as  it  had  come,  without  pain,  from  sheer  want  of 
vitality,  just  after  it  had  received  private  baptism. 

The  mother  received  the  news  with  regret,  but  it  was 
regret  not  unmingled  with  relief.  A  burden  of  infinite 
cares  and  worries  had  fallen  oflF  her  shoulders,  for  well  she 
knew  that  social  prejudice  would  not  have  permitted  her 
to  keep  the  prematurely-born  infant  under  our  own  roof. 

After  this  incident  we  firmly  made  up  our  minds  to  one 
thing:  No  more  children !  We  dreamed  of  a  life  together, 
a  life  of  perfect  comradeship,  of  a  man  and  a  woman,  lov- 
ing and   supplementing  each  other,  but  living  their  own 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  181 

lives,  restlessly  straining  every  nerve  to  realise  their  indi- 
vidual ambitions. 

Now  that  every  obstacle  had  been  removed,  every  threat- 
ening danger  overcome,  we  began  to  breathe  freely  and 
reconsider  our  position.  I  was  ostracised  by  my  relations, 
no  meddlesome  member  of  my  family  threatened  the  peace 
of  our  home,  and  since  the  only  relative  of  my  wife's  who 
lived  on  the  spot  was  her  aunt,  we  were  spared  the  fre- 
quent calls  and  visits  which  so  often  give  rise  to  serious 
troubles  and  trials  in  a  young  menage. 


II 

Six  weeks  later  I  made  the  discovery  that  two  intruders 
had  insinuated  themselves  into  my  wife's  confidence. 

One  of  them  was  a  dog,  a  King  Charles,  a  blear-eyed 
little  monster,  which  greeted  me  with  deafening  yelping 
and  barking  every  time  I  entered  the  house,  just  as  if  I 
had  been  a  stranger.  I  always  disliked  dogs,  those  pro- 
tectors of  cowards  who  lack  the  courage  to  fight  an  as- 
sailant themselves;  but  I  particularly  disliked  this  dog,  be- 
cause it  was  a  relic  of  her  first  marriage,  a  constant  re- 
minder of  her  late  husband. 

The  first  time  I  protested,  and  ordered  it  to  lie  down, 
my  wife  reproached  me  gently,  and  made  excuses  for  the 
little  beast,  which  she  called  her  late  daughter's  legacy, 
pretending  to  be  horror-struck  at  this  suddenly  revealed 
strain  of  cruelty  in  my  disposition. 

One  day  I  found  traces  of  the  little  monster  on  the 
drawing-room  carpet.  I  punished  it,  and  she  called  me  a 
coward  who  ill-treated  dumb  creatures. 

"  But  what  else  could  I  do,  my  dear-f*  It's  no  use  argu- 
ing with  animals;  they  don't  understand  our  language." 

She  began  to  cry,  and  sobbingly  confessed  that  she  could 
not  help  being  afraid  of  a  cruel  man.   .    .    . 

And  the  monster  continued  to  dirty  the  drawing-room 
carpet. 

I  decided  to  take  the  trouble  to  train  the  dog,  and  did 
my  utmost  to  convince  her  that  a  little  perseverance  does 
wonders  with  an  intelligent  animal. 

182 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  183 

She  lost  her  temper,  and  for  the  first  time  drew  my  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  the  carpet  belonged  to  her. 

"  Take  it  away,  then ;  I  never  undertook  to  live  in  a 
pig-sty." 

The  carpet  remained  where  it  was,  but  the  dog  was 
watched  more  carefully ;  my  remonstrances  had  some  effect. 

Nevertheless  fresh  catastrophes  occurred. 

In  order  to  keep  down  our  expenditure  and  save  the 
trouble  and  expense  of  a  kitchen  fire,  we  decided  to  have 
a  cold  supper  in  the  evening.  Entering  the  kitchen  acci- 
dentally on  one  occasion,  I  was  amazed  to  find  a  roaring  fire 
and  the  maid  engaged  in  frying  veal  cutlets. 

"  Who  are  these  cutlets  for?  "  * 

"  For  the  dog,  sir." 

My  wife  joined  us. 

"  My  dear  girl " 

"  Excuse  me,  I  paid  for  them !  " 

"  But  I  have  to  be  content  with  a  cold  supper !  I  fare 
worse  than  your  dog.    .    .    .    And  I,  too,  pay." 

She  paid! 

Henceforth  the  dog  was  looked  upon  as  a  martyr.  Marie 
and  a  friend,  a  brand-new  friend,  adopted  the  habit  of 
worshipping  the  beast,  which  they  had  decorated  with  a 
blue  ribbon,  behind  locked  doors.  And  the  dear  friend 
heaved  a  sigh  at  the  thought  of  so  much  human  malice 
incarnate  in  my  detestable  person. 

An  irrepressible  hatred  for  this  interloper  who  was 
everywhere  in  my  way,  took  possession  of  me.  My  wife, 
with  a  down  pillow  and  some  blankets,  made  a  bed  for  it 
which  obstructed  my  way  whenever  I  wanted  to  say  good- 
morning  or  good-night  to  her.  And  on  every  Saturday, 
the  day  I  looked  forward  to  through  a  week  of  toil,  count- 
ing on  a  pleasant  evening  with  her  alone  when,  undisturbed, 
we  could  talk  of  the  past  and  make  plans  for  the  future, 
she  spent  three  hours  with  her  friend  in  the  kitchen;  the 


184  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

maid  made  up  a  blazing  fire ;  the  whole  place  was  turned 
upside  down — and  why?  Because  Saturday  was  the  mon- 
ster's tub-day. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  are  treating  me  heartlessly, 
cruelly?  " 

"  How  dare  you  call  her  heartless  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
friend.  "  A  gentler  soul  never  breathed.  Why,  she 
doesn't  even  shrink  from  sacrificing  her  own  and  her  hus- 
band's happiness  to  a  poor  forsaken  animal !  " 

Some  little  time  after  I  sat  down  to  a  dinner  which  was 
below  criticism. 

For  some  time  past  the  food  which  was  sent  in  daily 
from  a  neighbouring  restaurant  had  been  steadily  deterior- 
ating, but  my  beloved  wife,  with  her  irresistible  sweet- 
ness, had  made  me  believe  that  I  had  grown  more  fastid- 
ious. And  I  had  not  doubted  her  word,  for  I  always  took 
her  at  her  own  valuation  and  looked  upon  her  as  the  soul 
of  truth  and  candour. 

The  fatal  dinner  was  served.  There  was  nothing  on 
the  dish  but  bones  and  sinews. 

"  What  is  this  you  are  putting  before  me  ?  "  I  asked  the 
maid. 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  had  orders  to 
reserve  the  best  pieces  for  the  dog." 

Beware  of  the  woman  who  has  been  found  out!  Her 
wrath  will  fall  on  your  head  with  fourfold  strength. 

She  sat  as  if  struck  by  lightning,  unmasked,  shown  up 
as  a  liar,  a  cheat  even,  for  she  had  always  insisted  that 
she  was  paying  for  the  dog's  food  out  of  her  own  pocket. 
Her  pallor  and  silence  made  me  feel  sorry  for  her.  I 
blushed  for  her,  and  hating  to  see  her  humiliated,  I  be- 
haved like  a  generous  conqueror,  and  tried  to  console  her. 
I  playfully  patted  her  cheek  and  told  her  not  to  mind. 

But  generosity  was  not  one  of  her  virtues.  She  burst 
into  a  torrent  of  angry  words:  My  origin  was  very  evident; 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  185 

I  had  no  education,  no  manners,  since  I  rebuked  her  be- 
fore a  servant,  a  stupid  girl  who  had  misunderstood  her 
instructions.  There  was  no  doubt  that  I,  and  I  only,  was 
to  blame.  Hysterics  followed,  she  grew  more  and  more 
violent,  jumped  up  from  her  chair,  threw  herself  on  the 
sofa,  raved  like  a  maniac,  sobbed  and  screamed  that  she 
was  dying. 

I  was  sceptical,  and  remained  untouched. 

Such  a  fuss,  and  all  about  a  dog! 

But  she  continued  to  scream;  it  was  a  frightful  scene; 
a  terrible  cough  shook  her  frame,  which  since  her  confine- 
ment had  grown  even  more  fragile;  I  was  deceived  after 
all,  and  sent  for  the  doctor. 

He  came,  examined  her  heart,  felt  her  pulse,  and  surlily 
turned  to  go;  I  stopped  him  on  the  threshold. 

"Well.?" 

"  H'm !  nothing  at  all,"  he  answered,  putting  on  his 
overcoat. 

"Nothing?   .    .    .    But.    .    .    ." 

"  Nothing  whatever.  .  .  .  You  ought  to  know 
women.   .    .    .    Good  day ! " 

If  I  had  only  known  then  what  I  know  now,  if  I  had 
known  the  secret,  the  remedy  for  hysteria  which  I  have 
discovered  since!  But  the  only  thing  which  occurred  to 
me  at  the  time  was  to  kiss  her  eyes  and  ask  her  pardon. 
And  that  was  what  I  did.  She  pressed  me  to  her  heart, 
called  me  her  sensible  child  who  should  take  care  of  her 
because  she  was  very  delicate,  very  weak,  and  would  die 
one  day  if  her  little  boy  had  not  the  sense  to  avoid  scenes. 

To  make  her  quite  happy  I  took  her  dog  upon  my  knees 
and  stroked  its  back;  and  for  the  next  half  hour  I  was 
rewarded  with  looks  full  of  the  tenderest  affection  and 
gratitude. 

From  that  day  the  dog  was  allowed  to  do  exactly  as  it 
liked,  and  it  dirtied  the  place  without  shame  or  restraint. 


186  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Sometimes  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  did  it  out  of  revenge. 
But  I  controlled  my  temper. 

I  waited  for  a  favourable  opportunity,  for  the  happy 
chance  which  would  deliver  me  from  the  torture  of  a  life 
spent  in  an  unclean  home.    .    .    . 

And  the  moment  arrived.  On  returning  to  dinner  one 
day,  I  found  my  wife  in  tears.  She  was  in  great  distress. 
Dinner  was  not  ready.  The  maid  was  looking  for  the 
lost  dog. 

Hardly  able  to  conceal  my  joy,  I  made  every  effort  to 
comfort  my  inconsolable  wife.  But  she  could  not  under- 
stand my  sympathy  with  her  grief,  for  she  realised  my 
inward  satisfaction  in  finding  the  enemy  gone. 

"  You  are  delighted,  I  know  you  are,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  You  find  amusement  in  the  misfortunes  of  your  friends. 
That  shows  how  full  of  malice  you  are,  and  that  you  don't 
love  me  any  more." 

"  My  love  for  you  is  as  great  as  ever  it  was,  believe  me, 
but  I  detest  your  dog." 

"  If  you  love  me,  you  must  love  my  dog  too !  " 

"  If  I  didn't  love  you,  I  should  have  struck  you  before 
now !  " 

The  effect  of  my  words  was  startling.  To  strike  a 
woman!  Carried  away  by  her  resentment,  she  reproached 
me  with  having  turned  out  her  dog,  poisoned  it. 

We  went  to  every  police-station,  we  paid  a  visit  to  the 
knacker,  and  in  the  end  the  disturber  of  our  peace  and 
happiness  was  recovered.  My  wife  and  her  friend,  re- 
garding me  as  a  poisoner,  or  at  any  rate  a  potential 
poisoner,  celebrated  its  recovery  with  great  rejoicings. 

Henceforth  the  monster  was  kept  a  prisoner  in  my  wife's 
bedroom;  that  charming  retreat  of  love,  furnished  with 
exquisite  taste,  was  turned  into  a  dog's  kennel. 

Our  small  flat  became  uninhabitable,  our  home-life  full 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  187 

of  jars.  I  ventured  to  make  a  remark  to  the  effect,  but 
my  wife  replied  that  her  room  was  her  own. 

Then  I  started  on  a  merciless  crusade.  I  left  her 
severely  alone;  and  by  and  by  she  found  my  reserve  im- 
bearable, 

"  Why  do  you  never  come  to  say  good-morning  to  me 
now?  " 

"  Because  I  can't  get  near  you." 

She  sulked.  I  sulked  too.  For  another  fortnight  I  lived 
in  celibacy.  Then,  tired  out,  she  found  herself  compelled 
to  make  friends.  She  took  the  first  step,  but  she  hated 
me  for  it. 

She  decided  to  have  the  troublesome  interloper  destroyed. 
But  instead  of  having  it  done  forthwith,  she  invited  her 
friend  to  assist  her  in  the  enactment  of  a  farewell  farce, 
entitled  "  The  Last  Moments  of  the  Condemned."  She 
went  to  the  length  of  begging  me  on  her  knees  to  embrace 
the  wretched  little  brute  as  a  proof  that  I  harboured  no 
ill-will,  arguing  that  dogs  might  possibly  have  an  immortal 
soul  and  that  we  might  meet  again  in  another  world.  The 
result  was  that  I  gave  the  dog  its  life  and  freedom,  an 
action  which  found  its  reward  in  her  gratitude. 

At  times  I  fancied  that  I  was  living  in  a  lunatic  asylum, 
but  one  does  not  stand  upon  trifles  when  one  is  in  love. 

This  scene,  "  The  Last  Moments  of  the  Condemned," 
was  renewed  every  six  months  during  the  next  three 
years. 

You,  reader,  who  read  this  plain  tale  of  a  man,  a  woman 
and  a  dog,  will  not  deny  me  your  compassion,  for  my  suf- 
ferings lasted  three  times  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days 
of  twenty-four  hours  each.  You  will  perhaps  admire  me, 
for  I  remained  alive.  If  it  be  true,  however,  that  I  am 
insane,  as  my  wife  maintains,  blame  no  one  but  myself, 
for  I  ought  to  have  had  the  courage  to  get  rid  of  the  dog 
once  and  for  all. 


Ill 

Marie's  friend  was  an  old  maid  of  about  forty  years, 
mysterious,  full  of  ideals  with  which  I  had  lost  all  sympathy 
long  ago. 

She  was  my  wife's  consoler.  In  her  arms  she  wept  over 
my  dislike  of  her  dog.  She  was  a  ready  listener  to  Marie's 
abuse  of  matrimony,  the  slavery  of  women. 

She  was  rather  reserved  and  careful  not  to  interfere; 
anyhow  I  noticed  nothing,  for  I  was  completely  pre-occu- 
pied  with  my  work.  But  I  had  an  idea  that  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  borrowing  small  sums  from  my  wife.  I  said 
nothing  until  one  day  I  saw  her  carrying  off  some  of  the 
table  silver  with  the  intention  of  pawning  it  for  her  own 
benefit. 

I  said  a  word  or  two  about  it  to  Marie,  and  gave  her 
to  understand  that  even  under  the  dotal  system  this  sort 
of  comradeship  was  very  tmwise.  She  never  dreamed  of 
helping  me,  her  husband  and  best  friend,  in  this  way, 
although  I  was  in  difficulties  and  worried  by  debts. 

"  Since  you  listen  to  such  proposals  from  strangers," 
I  said  to  her,  "why  not  lend  me  your  shares?  I  could 
raise  money  on  them." 

She  objected,  arguing  that  the  shares  had  fallen  so  low 
as  to  be  practically  valueless  and  consequently  unsaleable. 
Moreover  it  was  against  her  principles  to  transact  business 
with  her  husband. 

"  But  you  don't  object  to  a  stranger,  who  can  give  you 
no  security  whatever,  who  lives  on  a  pension  of  seventy- 
five  crowns,  per  annum!  Don't  you  think  it  wrong  to 
refuse   to  help   your   husband   who   is   trying  to   make   a 

188 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  189 

career,  and  provision  for  you  when  you  have  spent  your  own 
money,  not  to  mention  the  fact  that  your  interests  are 
identical  with  his  ?  " 

She  yielded,  and  the  loan  of  three  thousand  five  hundred 
francs,  or  thereabouts,  in  doubtful  shares,  was  granted. 

From  this  day  onward  she  looked  upon  herself  as  my 
patroness,  and  told  everybody  who  cared  to  listen  that 
she  had  safeguarded  my  career  by  sacrificing  her  dowry. 
The  fact  of  my  being  a  well-known  writer  before  I  had 
ever  set  eyes  on  her  was  quite  lost  sight  of.  But  it  was 
bliss  to  me  to  look  up  to  her,  to  be  indebted  to  her  for 
everything:  my  life,  my  future,  my  happiness. 

In  our  marriage  contract  I  had  insisted  on  settling  all 
her  property  on  herself,  partly  because  her  financial  affairs 
were  chaos.  The  Baron  owed  her  money ;  but  instead  of 
paying  her  in  cash,  he  had  guaranteed  a  loan  which  she 
had  raised.  In  spite  of  all  my  precautions  I  was  requested 
by  the  bank  on  the  morning  after  our  wedding  to  guarantee 
the  sum.  My  objections  were  so  much  waste  of  breath; 
the  bank  did  not  look  upon  my  wife  as  responsible,  since 
by  her  second  marriage  she  had  again  legally  become  a- 
minor.  To  my  great  indignation  I  was  compelled  to  sign 
the  guarantee,  to  put  my  signature  by  the  side  of  that  of 
the  Baron. 

In  my  perfect  simplicity  I  had  no  idea  of  what  I  was 
doing.  It  merely  seemed  to  me  that  what  every  man  of 
the  world  would  have  done  in  my  place,  was  the  right 
thing  to  do. 

One  evening,  while  I  was  closeted  in  my  room  with  a 
friend,  the  Baron  called.  It  was  his  first  call  since  our 
wedding.  My  predecessor's  visit  seemed  to  me  in  bad 
taste,  to  say  the  least  of  it;  but  since  he  did  not  mind 
meeting  me,  I  pretended  to  be  pleased  to  see  him.  When 
I  accompanied  my  friend  to  the  door,  however,  I  did  not 


190  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

think  it  necessary  to  introduce  him.  Later  on,  my  wife 
reproached  me  for  the  omission,  and  called  me  unmannerly. 
I  accused  both  her  and  the  Baron  of  tactlessness. 

A  violent  quarrel  ensued,  in  which  she  called  me  a  boor. 
One  word  led  to  another,  and  certain  pictures  were  men- 
tioned which  had  once  belonged  to  the  Baron,  but  were  now 
decorating  my  walls.  I  begged  her  to  send  them  back  to 
him. 

"  You  cannot  return  presents  without  hurting  the 
giver,"  she  exclaimed.  "  He  doesn't  dream  of  returning 
the  presents  you  gave  him,  but  keeps  them  as  a  proof  of 
his  friendship  and  trust." 

The  pretty  word  "  trust "  disarmed  me.  But  my  eye 
fell  on  a  piece  of  furniture  which  awakened  unpleasant 
memories. 

"  Where  does  this  writing-table  come  from.^  " 

"  It  was  my  mother's." 

She  was  speaking  the  truth,  although  she  omitted  to  add 
that  it  had  passed  through  her  first  husband's  house. 

What  a  strange  lack  of  delicacy,  what  bad  form,  how 
utterly  regardless  of  my  honour!  Was  it  done  intention- 
ally so  as  to  depreciate  me  in  the  eyes  of  my  fellow-men? 
Had  I  fallen  into  a  trap  set  by  an  unscrupulous  woman  .^ 
I  wondered.    .    .    . 

Yet  I  surrendered  unconditionally  without  struggling 
against  her  subtle  logic,  convinced  that  her  aristocratic 
bringing-up  ought  to  serve  me  as  a  guide  in  all  doubtful 
cases  where  my  education  did  not  suffice.  She  had  a  ready 
answer  to  everything.  The  Baron  had  never  bought  a 
single  piece  of  furniture.  Everything  belonged  to  her — 
and  since  the  Baron  did  not  scruple  to  keep  my  wife's 
furniture,  I  need  not  scruple  to  accept  all  articles  which 
belonged  to  my  own  wife. 

The  last  phrase:  "Since  the  Baron  did  not  scruple  to 
keep  my  wife's  furniture,"  caused  me  lively  satisfaction. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  191 

Because  the  pictures  which  hung  in  my  drawing-room 
were  proofs  of  a  noble  trust  and  evidenced  the  ideal 
character  of  our  relationship,  they  remained  where  they 
were;  I  even  carried  simplicity  to  the  length  of  telling  all 
inquisitive  callers  who  cared  to  know  who  the  giver  of 
those  landscapes  was. 

I  never  dreamed  in  those  days  that  it  was  I,  the  man 
belonging  to  the  middle-classes,  who  possessed  tact  and 
delicacy,  instincts  which  are  as  frequently  found  amongst 
the  lower  strata  of  society  as  they  are  wanting  in  men  and 
women  of  the  upper  ones,  where  coarse  minds  are  only 
too  often  cleverly  concealed  under  a  thin  layer  of  veneer. 
Would  that  I  had  known  what  manner  of  woman  she  was 
in  whose  hands  I  had  laid  my  fate! 

But  I  did  not  know  it. 


IV 

As  soon  as  Marie  had  got  over  her  confinement,  which 
compelled  her  to  live  quietly  for  a  time,  she  was  seized 
with  a  craving  for  excitement.  Under  the  pretext  of 
studying  her  art,  she  visited  the  theatres  and  went  to  pub- 
lic entertainments  while  I  stayed  at  home  and  worked. 
Protected  by  the  title  of  a  married  woman,  she  was  re- 
ceived in  circles  which  had  been  closed  to  the  divorced 
wife.  She  was  anxious  that  I  should  accompany  her,  for 
she  considered  the  fact  of  her  husband's  absence  prejudicial 
to  her  best  interests.  But  I  resisted,  and  while  claiming 
for  myself  personal  freedom,  according  to  our  verbal  agree- 
ment, I  allowed  her  absolute  liberty,  and  let  her  go  where 
she  pleased. 
'     "  But  no  one  ever  sets  eyes  on  the  husband,"  she  objected. 

"  People  will  understand  him,"  I  replied. 

The  husband!  The  very  way  in  which  she  pronounced 
the  word  conveyed  opprobrium;  and  she  fell  into  the  habit 
of  treating  me  with  a  certain  amount  of  superciliousness. 

During  the  solitary  hours  which  I  spent  at  home  I 
worked  at  my  ethnographical  treatise,  which  was  to  be  the 
ladder  on  which  I  hoped  to  climb  to  promotion  at  the  li- 
brary. I  was  in  correspondence  with  all  the  learned 
authorities  in  Paris,  Berlin,  Petersburg,  Irkutsk  and 
Peking,  and,  seated  at  my  writing-table,  I  held  in  my 
hand  the  threads  of  a  perfect  net  of  inter-relations  which 
stretched  all  over  the  world.  Marie  did  not  approve  of 
this  work.     She  would  have  preferred  to  see  me  engaged 

192 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  193 

in  writing  comedies,  and  was  angry  with  me.  I  begged 
her  to  await  results,  and  not  condemn  my  work  prema- 
turely as  waste  of  time.  But  she  would  have  none  of 
these  Chinese  researches  which  brought  in  no  money.  A 
new  Xanthippe,  she  severely  tried  my  Socratic  patience 
by  reiterating  that  I  was  frittering  away  her  dowry — her 
dowry! 

My  life  was  a  strange  mingling  of  sweetness  and 
bitterness,  and  one  of  my  greatest  worries  was  Marie's 
theatrical  career.  In  March  it  was  rumoured  that  the 
company  of  the  Royal  Theatre  would  be  reduced  at  the 
end  of  May,  the  period  when  contracts  were  renewed. 
This  gave  rise  to  fresh  floods  of  tears  during  the  next 
three  months,  in  addition  to  the  usual  every-day  griev- 
ances. The  house  was  overrun  by  all  the  failures  from 
the  Royal  Theatre.  My  soul,  broadened  and  uplifted  by 
the  knowledge  I  had  acquired,  and  the  growth  and 
development  of  my  talent,  rebelled  against  the  presence 
of  these  unfit  ones,  these  incapables  who  possessed  no 
culture,  who  were  detestable  on  account  of  their  vanity, 
their  ceaseless  flow  of  banalities,  uttered  in  the  slang  of 
the  theatre,  which  they  called  new  truths. 

I  became  so  sick  of  the  torture  of  their  tittle-tattle 
that  I  begged  to  be  in  future  excused  from  my  wife's 
parties.  I  urged  her  to  cut  her  connection  with  those 
mental  lepers,  those  disqualified  ones,  whose  presence  must 
of  necessity  depress  us  and  rob  us  of  our  courage. 

"  Aristocrat !  "  she  sneered. 

"  Aristocrat,  if  you  like,  but  aristocrat  in  the  true  sense 
of  the  word,"  I  replied ;  "  for  I  yearn  for  the  summits 
of  genius,  not  for  the  mole-hills  of  the  titled  aristocracy. 
Nevertheless,  I  suffer  all  the  sorrows  of  the  disinherited." 

When  I  ask  myself  to-day  how  I  could  have  lived  for 
years  the  slave  of  a  woman  who  treated  me  disgracefully, 
who  shamelessly  robbed   me  in   company   of  her   friends 


194  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

and  her  dog,  I  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  thanks 
to  my  moderation,  to  my  ascetic  philosophy  of  life,  which 
taught  me  not  to  be  exacting,  especially  in  love.  I  loved 
her  so  much  that  I  irritated  her,  and  more  than  once  she 
plainly  showed  me  that  my  passionate  temperament  bored 
her.  But  everything  was  forgotten  and  forgiven  at  those 
rare  moments  when  she  caressed  me,  when  she  took  my 
throbbing  head  into  her  lap,  when  her  fingers  played  with 
my  hair.  This  was  happiness  unspeakable,  and  like  a  fool 
I  stammered  out  the  confession  that  life  without  her 
would  be  impossible,  that  my  existence  hung  on  a  thread 
which  she  held  in  her  hand.  In  this  way  I  fostered  a 
conviction  in  her  that  she  was  a  higher  being,  and  the 
consequence  was  that  she  treated  me  with  flattery  and 
blandishments  as  if  I  were  a  spoilt  child.  She  knew  that 
I  was  in  her  power,  and  did  not  scruple  to  abuse  it. 

When  the  summer  came  she  went  into  the  country  and 
took  her  maid  with  her.  She  moreover  persuaded  her 
friend  to  accompany  her,  for  she  was  afraid  of  feeling 
lonely  during  the  week  when  my  work  kept  me  at  the 
library.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  objected,  that  I  reminded 
her  that  her  friend  was  not  in  a  position  to  pay,  and  that 
our  means  were  limited ;  Marie  looked  upon  me  as  a 
"  spirit  of  evil,"  and  reproached  me  with  speaking  ill  of 
everybody.  I  gave  in  eventually,  in  order  to  avoid 
unpleasantness.     I  gave  in — alas !     T  always  gave  in. 

After  a  whole  week's  loneliness  I  welcomed  Saturday 
as  a  red-letter  day.  With  a  jubilant  heart  I  caught  an 
early  train  and  then  set  out  joyfully  for  half-an-hour's 
walk  under  the  scorching  sun,  carrying  bottles  and  pro- 
visions for  the  week.  My  blood  danced  through  my 
veins,  my  pulse  throbbed  at  the  thought  of  seeing  Marie 
!n  a  few  moments;  she  would  come  to  meet  me  with  open 
arms,  her  hair  flying  in  the  breeze,  her  face  rosy  with 
the   sweet   country   air.      In   addition   I  was   hungry   and 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  195 

looking  forward  to  a  gay  little  dinner,  for  I  had  eaten 
nothing  since  my  early  breakfast.  At  last  the  cottage 
among  the  fir-trees,  close  to  the  lake,  came  in  sight.  At 
the  same  time  I  caught  a  glimpse,  of  Marie  and  her  friend, 
in  light  summer  dresses,  stealing  away  to  the  bathing 
vans.  I  shouted  to  them  with  all  the  power  of  my  lungs. 
They  could  not  help  hearing  me,  for  they  were  well  within 
earshot.  But  they  only  hastened  their  footsteps,  as  if 
they  were  running  away  from  me,  and  disappeared  into  a 
bathing  van.     What  did  it  mean? 

The  maid  appeared  as  soon  as  she  heard  my  footsteps 
in  the  house;  she  looked  uneasy,  afraid. 

"  Where  are  the  ladies  ?  " 

"  They  have  gone  to  bathe,  sir." 

"  When  will  dinner  be  ready }  " 

"  Not  before  four  o'clock,  sir.  The  ladies  have  only 
just  got  up,  and  I  have  been  busy  helping  the  young  lady 
to  dress." 

"  Did  you  hear  me  call?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

...  So  they  had  really  run  away  from  me,  driven  from 
my  presence  by  an  uneasy  conscience,  and,  hungry  and 
tired  as  I  was,  I  had  to  wait  for  a  couple  of  hours  for 
my  dinner. 

What  a  reception  after  a  week  full  of  hard  work  and 
longing!  The  thought  that  she  had  run  away  from  me 
like  a  school-girl  caught  breaking  the  rules  stabbed  me 
like  a  dagger. 

WTien  she  returned  to  the  house  I  was  fast  asleep  on 
the  sofa,  and  in  a  very  bad  temper.  She  kissed  me  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  trying  to  prevent  the  storm  from 
breaking.  But  self-control  is  not  always  possible.  A 
hungry  stomach  has  no  ears,  and  a  distressed  heart  is 
not  soothed  by  deceitful  kisses. 

"  Are  you  angry?  " 


196  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  My  nerves  are  on  edge,  don't  irritate  me." 

"  I'm  not  your  cook !  " 

"  I  never  said  you  were,  but  don't  prevent  the  cook 
•we  have  from  doing  her  work !  " 

"  You  forget  that  Amy,  as  our  paying  guest,  is  entitled 
to  the  services  of  our  maid." 

"  Didn't  you  hear  me  calling?  " 

"No!" 

She  was  telling  me  lies.  ...  I  felt  as  if  my  heart  would 
break. 

Dinner — my  eagerly-looked-for  dinner — was  a  long 
torture.  The  afternoon  was  dismal;  Marie  wept  and 
inveighed  against  matrimony,  holy  matrimony,  the  only 
true  happiness  in  the  world,  crying  on  the  shoulder  of 
her  friend,  covering  her  villainous  little  dog  with  kisses. 

Cruel,  false,  deceitful — and  sentimental ! 

And  so  it  went  on  during  the  whole  summer  in  infinite 
variety.  I  spent  my  Sundays  with  two  imbeciles  and  a 
dog.  They  were  trying  to  make  me  believe  that  all  our 
unhappiness  was  due  to  my  irritable  nerves  and  persuade 
me,  to  consult  a  doctor. 

I  had  intended  to  take  my  wife  for  a  sail  on  Sunday 
morning,  but  she  did  not  get  up  before  dinner  time;  after 
dinner  it  was  too  late. 

And  yet  this  tender-hearted  woman,  who  tortured  me 
with  pin-pricks,  cried  bitterly  one  morning  because  the 
gardener  was  killing  a  rabbit  for  dinner,  and  confessed 
to  me  in  the  evening  that  she  had  been  praying  that  the 
poor  little  beast's  sufferings  might  be  short. 

Not  long  ago  I  saw  somewhere  a  statement  made  by 
a  psychopathist  to  the  effect  that  an  exaggerated  love  for 
animals  combined  with  indifference  towards  the  sufferings 
of  one's  fellow-creatures  is  a  symptom  of  insanity. 

Marie  could  pray  for  a  rabbit  and  at  the  same  time 
tpjnmgnt  her  husband  with  smiling  lips. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  197 

On  our  last  Sunday  in  the  country  she  took  me  aside, 
talked  in  flattering  terms  of  my  generosity,  appealed  to 
my  kind  heart  and  begged  me  to  cancel  Miss  Amy's  debt 
to  us,  pleading  her  very  small  means, 

I  consented  Mdthout  discussing  the  matter,  without 
telling  her  that  I  had  anticipated  the  suggestion,  foreseen 
the  trick,  the  inevitable  trick.  But  she,  armed  to  the 
teeth  with  arguments,  even  when  she  was  unopposed, 
continued — 

"  If  not,  I  could,  if  necessary,  pay  her  share  for  her !  " 

No  doubt  she  could  have  done  so.  But  could  she  have 
paid  for  the  annoyance  and  trouble  caused  by  her 
friend.''  .  .  . 

Ah,  well — husband  and  wife  must  not  fall  out  over 
trifles. 


In  the  commencement  of  the  new  year  a  general  crisis 
shook  the  credit  of  the  old  country,  and  the  Bank  which 
had  issued  the  shares  lent  to  me  by  Marie  failed.  I 
received  notice  that  the  loan  would  be  called  in.  I  was 
forced  to  pay  cash  for  the  sum  I  had  been  compelled  to 
guarantee.  It  was  a  heavy  blow,  but  after  endless  diffi- 
culties I  came  to  terms  with  the  creditors,  who  agreed  to 
a  year's  respite.  It  was  a  terrible  year,  the  worst  period 
of  my  life. 

As  soon  as  things  were  a  little  more  settled  I  began  to 
make  every  effort  to  extricate  myself. 

In  addition  to  my  work  at  the  library  I  started  a  novel 
on  modem  morals  and  customs;  filled  newspapers  and 
periodicals  with  essays,  and  completed  my  scientific 
treatise.  Marie,  at  the  expiration  of  her  contract  with 
the  theatre,  was  re-engaged  for  another  year,  but  her  pay 
was  reduced  to  fourteen  hundred  crowns.  .  .  .  Now  I 
was  better  off  than  she,  for  she  had  lost  her  capital  in 
the  general  smash. 

She  was  in  a  vile  temper,  and  made  me  suffer  for  it. 
To  re-establish  the  equilibrium,  and  thinking  of  nothing 
but  her  independence,  she  attempted  to  raise  a  loan,  but 
these  attempts  proved  abortive  and  only  led  to  unpleasant- 
ness. Acting  thoughtlessly,  despite  her  good  intentions, 
she  did  me  harm  with  her  efforts  to  save  herself  and  render 
my  task  more  easy,  I  appreciated  her  good  intentions, 
but  I  could  not  help  remonstrating. 

Always  capricious  and  wayward,  she  showed  unmis- 
takable signs  of  malice  and  fresh  events  disclosed  a  state 
of  mind  which  filled  me  with  apprehension. 

198 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  199 

A  fancy-dress  ball,  for  instance,  was  given  at  the 
theatre,  and  I  had  her  promise  not  to  attend  the  ball  in 
male  attire.  She  had  bound  herself  by  a  solemn  oath,  for 
I  had  been  very  emphatic  on  the  subject.  On  the  morn- 
ing after  the  ball  I  was  told  that  she  had  not  only  broken 
her  promise,  but  that  she  had  gone  to  supper  later  on 
with  some  of  her  male  friends. 

I  was  angry  because  she  had  lied  to  me,  and  the  thought 
of  the  subsequent  supper  made  me  feel  imeasy. 

"  Well,"  she  replied,  when  I  expostulated  with  her, 
"  am  I  not  free  to  please  myself }  " 

"No,  you  are  a  married  woman !  You  bear  my  name, 
and  we  are  responsible  to  each  other.  Whenever  you 
compromise  yourself,  you  compromise  me,  and,  in  fact, 
you  do  me  a  greater  injury  than  you  do  yourself." 

"  That  means  that  I  am  not  free?  " 

"  Nobody  can  be  absolutely  free  in  a  community  where 
every  individual  is  inextricably  mixed  up  with  the  fate 
of  others.  Supposing  I  had  invited  some  women  friends 
to  supper,  what  would  you  have  said  ?  " 

She  insisted  that  she  was  free  to  do  as  she  liked;  that 
she  was  at  liberty,  if  she  felt  so  inclined,  to  ruin  my 
reputation;  that  her  freedom  was,  in  fact,  absolute.  She 
was  a  savage;  freedom,  as  she  interpreted  it,  was  the  rule 
of  an  autocrat  who  trampled  the  honour  and  happiness 
of  her  fellow  creatures  into  the  dust. 

This  scene,  which  began  with  a  quarrel,  led  to  floods 
of  tears  and  ended  with  hysterics,  was  followed  by  another 
which  made  me  feel  even  more  uneasy,  more  especially  as 
I  was  not  sufficiently  initiated  into  the  secrets  of  sexual 
life  to  deal  with  its  anomalies,  which  terrified  me,  like  all 
anomalies  which  are  difficult  of  explanation. 

One  evening,  when  the  maid  was  busy  making  up 
Marie's  bed  for  the  night,  I  heard  a  half-suppressed 
scream  and  smothered  laughter,  as  if  some  one  were  being 


200  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

tickled.  I  felt  a  sudden  fear;  an  inexplicable  terror  and 
a  wave  of  passionate  anger  swept  over  me;  I  opened  the 
door  quickly  and  caught  Marie,  with  her  hands  on  the 
girl's  shoulders,  in  the  act  of  pressing  her  lips  upon  her 
white  throat. 

"  What  are  you  doing/'  I  exclaimed  furiously,  "  are 
you  mad  }  " 

"  I  am  only  teasing  her,"  answered  Marie  cynically. 
"  What  has  that  to  do  with  you .''  " 

"  It  has  everything  to  do  with  me !     Come  here !  " 

And  under  four  eyes  I  explained  to  her  the  nature  of 
her  offence. 

But  she  accused  me  of  a  vicious  imagination,  told  me 
that  I  was  perverted  and  saw  vice  everywhere. 

It  is  a  fatal  thing  to  catch  a  woman  red-handed.  She 
deluged  me  with  abuse. 

In  the  course  of  the  discussion  I  reminded  her  of  the 
love  she  had  confessed  to  have  felt  for  her  cousin,  pretty 
Matilda.  With  an  expression  of  angelic  innocence  she 
replied  that  she  herself  had  been  amazed  at  the  strength 
of  her  feelings,  as  she  had  never  thought  it  possible  for 
one  woman  to  be  so  deeply  in  love  with  another. 

This  naive  confession  reassured  me.  I  remembered  that 
one  evening,  at  my  brother-in-law's,  Marie  had  quite 
openly  sjK>ken  of  her  passionate  love  for  her  cousin,  with- 
out blushing,  without  being  conscious  that  there  was 
anything  at  all  unusual  in  her  conduct. 

But  I  was  angry.  I  recommended  her  to  beware  of 
fancies  which,  though  harmless  to  begin  with,  degenerated 
only  too  often  into  vice  and  led  to  disastrous  results. 

She  made  some  inane  reply,  treated  me  like  a  fool — she 
loved  treating  me  as  if  I  were  the  most  ignorant  of 
ignoramuses — and  finished  off  by  saying  that  I  had  been 
telling  her  a  pack  of  lies. 

What  was  the  use  of  explaining  to  her  that  offences  of 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  201 

that  sort  were  legal  offences  ?  What  was  the  use  of  trying 
to  convince  her  that  medical  books  termed  caresses  cal- 
culated to  arouse  amorous  feelings  in  others  "  vicious  "  ? 

I,  I  was  the  debauchee,  steeped  in  vice.  Nothing  could 
persuade  her  to  stop  her  innocent  gambols. 

She  belonged  to  that  class  of  unconscious  criminals 
who  should  be  confined  in  a  house  of  correction  and  not 
allowed  to  be  at  large. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  spring  she  introduced  a  new 
friend,  one  of  her  colleagues,  a  woman  of  about  thirty, 
a  fellow  sufferer,  threatened,  like  Marie  herself,  with  the 
lapse  of  her  contract,  and  therefore,  in  my  opinion, 
worthy  of  compassion.  I  was  sorry  to  see  this  woman, 
once  a  celebrated  beauty,  reduced  to  such  straits.  No 
one  knew  why  her  contract  was  not  to  be  renewed,  unless 
it  was  because  of  the  engagement  of  the  daughter  of  a 
famous  actress;  one  triumph  always  demands  hecatombs 
of  victims. 

Nevertheless,  I  did  not  like  her;  she  was  self-assertive 
and  always  gave  me  the  impression  of  a  woman  on  the 
look-out  for  prey.  She  flattered  me,  tried  to  fascinate  me, 
in  order,  no  doubt,  to  take  advantage  of  me. 

Jealous  scenes  took  place  occasionally  between  the  old 
friend  and  the  new  one,  one  abused  the  other,  but  I  refused 
to  take  sides.     .     .     . 

Before  the  summer  was  over  Marie  was  expecting 
another  baby.  Her  confinement  would  take  place  in 
February.  It  came  upon  us  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue. 
It  was  now  necessary  to  strain  every  effort  to  make  port 
before  the  fatal  day  dawned. 

My  novel  appeared  in  November.  It  was  an  enormous 
success.     Money  was  plentiful,  we  were  saved! 

I  had  reached  the  goal.  I  breathed  freely.  I  had  made 
my  way;  I  was  appreciated  at  last  and  hailed  with 
acclamations  as  a  master.     The  years  of  trouble  and  black 


202  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

care  were  over;  we  were  looking  forward  to  the  birth  of 
this  child  with  great  joy.  We  christened  it  in  anticipa- 
tion and  bought  Christmas  presents  for  it.  My  wife  was 
happy  and  proud  of  her  condition,  and  our  intimate 
friends  fell  into  the  habit  of  asking  how  "  the  little  chap  " 
wasj  just  as  if  he  had  already  arrived. 

Famous  now  and  content  with  my  success,  I  determined 
to  rehabilitate  Marie  and  save  her  ruined  career.  To 
achieve  this  I  planned  a  play  in  four  acts,  and  offered  it 
to  the  Royal  Theatre.  It  contained  a  sympathetic  part 
in  which  she  had  every  chance  of  reconquering  the  public. 

On  the  very  day  of  her  confinement  I  heard  that  the 
play  vras  accepted  and  that  she  had  been  cast  for  the 
principal  part. 

Everything  was  well  in  the  best  of  all  worlds;  the 
broken  tie  between  me  and  my  family  was  firmly  reknitted 
by  the  birth  of  the  baby.  The  good  time,  the  spring-time 
of  my  life  had  arrived.  There  was  bread  in  the  house, 
and  even  wine.  The  mother,  the  beloved,  the  adored, 
was  taking  new  pleasure  in  life,  and  had  regained  all  her 
former  beauty.  The  indifference  and  neglect  with  which 
she  had  treated  her  first  baby  were  transformed  into  the 
tenderest  care  for  the  newborn  infant. 


VI 

Summer  had  come  again.  I  was  in  a  position  to  ask 
for  a  few  months'  leave,  which  I  purported  spending  with 
my  family  in  the  solitude  of  one  of  the  green  islands  on 
the  shores  of  the  Stockholm  Archipelago. 

I  was  beginning  to  reap  the  harvest  of  my  scientific 
researches.  My  treatise  was  read  by  the  Academic  des 
Inscriptions  et  Belles  Lettres  in  the  Institut  de  France. 
I  was  elected  a  member  of  several  foreign  scientific 
societies,  and  the  Imperial  Russian  Geographical  Society 
conferred  its  medal  upon  me. 

At  the  age  of  thirty  I  had  won  an  excellent  position  in 
the  literary  and  scientific  world  and  a  brilliant  future  lay 
before  me.  It  was  pure  happiness  to  lay  my  trophies  at 
Marie's  feet.  .  .  .  But  she  was  angry  with  me  because 
I  had  "  disturbed  the  equilibrium."  I  had  to  make  my- 
self small  to  spare  her  the  humiliation  of  having  to  look 
up  to  her  husband.  Like  the  good-natured  giant  in  the 
fable  I  allowed  her  to  pull  my  beard,  and  as  a  consequence 
she  presumed  on  my  good-nature.  She  took  a  pleasure 
in  belittling  me  before  the  servants  and  before  her  friends 
who  were  on  visiting  terms  with  us,  especially  her  women 
friends.  She  gave  herself  airs ;  raised  by  me  on  a  pedestal, 
she  posed  as  my  superior,  and  the  more  insignificant  I 
pretended  to  be,  the  more  she  trampled  on  me.  I  deliber- 
ately fostered  in  her  the  delusion  that  I  had  to  thank 
her  for  my  fame,  which  she  did  not  understand  and  which 
she  apparently  thought  little  of.  I  took  a  positive  delight 
in  making  myself  out  to  be  inferior  to  her.      I  contented 

203 


204  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

myself  with  being  no  more  than  the  husband  of  a  charm- 
ing woman,  and  eventually  she  came  to  believe  that  she, 
and  not  I,  possessed  genius.  This  applied  even  to  the 
details  of  everyday  life.  Being  an  excellent  swimmer 
myself,  for  instance,  I  taught  her  to  swim.  In  order 
to  encourage  her,  I  simulated  nervousness,  and  the  plea- 
sure she  took  in  ridiculing  my  efforts  and  talking  of  her 
own  grand  achievements  was  a  constant  source  of  amuse- 
ment to  me. 

The  days  passed ;  into  the  worship  of  my  wife  as  mother 
a  new  thought  stole  and  began  to  haunt  me  persistently: 
I  was  married  to  a  woman  of  thirty — a  critical  age,  the 
beginning  of  a  period  full  of  dangers  and  pitfalls — I  could 
see  indications  every  now  and  then  which  made  me  feel 
nervous,  indications,  perhaps  not  fraught  with  disaster 
for  the  moment,  but  which  carried  in  them  the  germ  of 
discord. 

After  her  confinement  physical  antagonism  came  to  be 
added  to  incompatibility  of  temper;  sexual  intercourse 
between  us  became  odious.  When  her  passion  was 
aroused,  she  behaved  like  a  cynical  coquette.  Sometimes 
she  took  a  malicious  delight  in  making  me  jealous;  at 
other  times  she  let  herself  go  to  an  alarming  extent,  pos- 
sibly, I  thought,  under  pressure  of  licentious  and  perverse 
desires. 

One  morning  we  went  out  in  a  sailing  boat,  accom- 
panied by  a  young  fisherman.  I  took  charge  of  tiller 
and  mainsail,  while  the  lad  was  attending  to  the  foresail. 
My  wife  was  sitting  near  him.  The  wind  dropped  and 
silence  reigned  in  the  boat.  All  at  once  I  noticed  that 
the  young  fisherman,  from  under  his  cap,  was  casting  lewd 
glances  in  the  direction  of  my  wife's  feet.  .  .  .  Her  feet.'' 
.  .  .  Perhaps  there  was  more  to  be  seen;  I  could  not 
tell  from  where  I  sat.  I  watched  her.  Her  passionate 
eyes  devoured  the  young  man's  frame.     In  order  to  remind 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  205 

her  of  my  presence  I  made  a  sudden  gesture,  like  a 
dreamer  rousing  himself  from  a  dream.  She  pvdled  her- 
self together  with  an  effort,  and,  her  eyes  resting  on 
the  huge  tops  of  his  boots,  she  clumsily  extricated  herself 
from  an  awkward  position  by  remarking — 

"  I  wonder  whether  boots  of  this  sort  are  expensive?  " 

What  was  I  to  think  of  such  a  stupid  remark? 

To  divert  her  mind  from  the  voluptuous  current  of  her 
thoughts,  I  made  the  lad  change  places  with  me  under 
some  pretext  or  other. 

I  tried  to  forget  this  irritating  scene;  tried  to  persuade 
myself  that  I  had  been  mistaken,  although  similar  scenes 
were  stored  up  in  my  memory,  recollections  of  her  burning 
eyes  scrutinising  the  lines  of  my  body  underneath  my 
clothes. 

A  week  later  my  suspicions  were  re-awakened  by  an 
incident  which  once  and  for  all  destroyed  all  my  hopes 
of  ever  seeing  this  perverse  woman  realise  my  ideal  of 
motherhood. 

One  of  my  friends  spent  a  week-end  with  us.  He  made 
himself  very  agreeable  to  her.  She  rewarded  his  courtesy 
by  flirting  with  him  outrageously.  It  grew  late;  we  said 
good-night  to  each  other  and  separated.  I  thought  that 
she  had  gone  to  bed. 

Half-an-hour  later  I  heard  voices  on  the  balcony.  I 
stepped  out  quickly,  and  found  wife  and  friend  sitting 
together,  drinking  liqueurs.  I  treated  the  matter  as  a 
joke,  but  on  the  following  morning  I  reproached  her  with 
making  me  a  public  laughing-stock. 

She  laughed,  called  me  a  man  of  prejudices,  cursed 
with  a  fantastic  and  vicious  imagination  ...  in  fact, 
deluged  me  with  her  whole  repertory  of  futile  arguments. 

I  lost  my  temper;  she  had  hysterics  and  played  her  part 
so  well  that  I  apologised  for  doing  her  an  injustice. 


206  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Doing  her  an  injustice — when  I  considered  her  conduct 
absolutely  culpable ! 

Her  final  words  silenced  me  completely. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said  contemptuously,  "  I  could 
bear  to  go  through  divorce  proceedings  a  second  time?  " 

And  brooding  over  my  troubles  I  slept  with  the  calm 
of  the  duped  husband. 

What  is  a  coquette?  ...  A  woman  who  makes 
advances.     Coquetry  is  nothing  but  making  advances. 

And  what  is  jealousy?  .  .  .  The  fear  of  losing  one's 
most  precious  possession.  .  .  .  The  jealous  husband?  A 
ridiculous  individual  because  of  his  absurd  objection  to 
lose  his  most  precious  possession. 


VII 

Success  followed  success.  All  our  debts  were  paid. 
It  rained  money.  But  although  a  great  proportion  of 
my  income  went  towards  household  expenses,  our  financial 
position  was  chaos.  Marie,  who  kept  the  accounts  and 
had  the  cash,  was  always  clamouring  for  more  money, 
and  her  constaijt  demands  were  the  cause  of  violent  scenes. 

Her  contract  with  the  theatre  was  not  renewed.  It 
goes  without  saying  that  I  had  to  bear  the  consequences. 
It  was  all  my  fault!  ...  If  only  she  had  never  married 
me!  .  .  .  The  part  which  I  had  written  for  her  was 
forgotten;  she  had  indeed  completely  ruined  it,  for  she 
had  bungled  it,  and  played  it  without  the  slightest  con- 
ception of  its  subtleties. 

About  this  time  much  interest  was  aroused  in  what  has 
been  called  the  "  woman  question."  The  famous  Nor- 
wegian male  blue-stocking  had  written  a  play  on  the 
subject,  and  all  feeble  minds  were  obsessed  by  a  perfect 
mania  of  finding  oppressed  women  everywhere.  I  fought 
against  those  foolish  notions,  and  consequently  was  dubbed 
"  mysogynist,"  an  epithet  which  has  clung  to  me  all  my 
life. 

A  few  home-truths  on  the  occasion  of  our  next  quarrel 
threw  Marie  into  a  violent  fit  of  hysterics.  It  was  just 
after  the  greatest  discovery  of  the  nineteenth  century  in 
the  treatment  of  neurotic  diseases  had  been  made.  The 
remedy  was  as  simple  as  all  great  truths. 

When  the  screams  of  the  patient  were  at  their  loudest, 
I  seized  a  water-bottle  and  thundered  the  magic  words — 

"  Get  up,  or  I  shall  pour  this  water  over  you !  " 

207 


208  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

She  stopped  screaming  at  once — and  shot  at  me  a  look 
of  sincere  admiration,  mingled  with  deadly  hatred. 

For  a  moment  I  was  taken  aback,  but  my  reawakened 
manhood  would  not  be  denied. 

Again  I  lifted  the  water-bottle — 

"  Stop  your  screaming,  or  I  shall  pour  this  water  over 
you !  " 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  called  me  a  blackguard,  a  wretch, 
an  impostor — signs  that  my  remedy  had  been  effective. 

Husbands,  duped  or  otherwise,  believe  me,  for  I  am 
your  sincere  friend:  this  is  the  secret  of  the  great  cure 
for  hysterics;  remember  it,  maybe  the  time  will  come 
when  you  need  it. 

From  that  day  my  death  was  irrevocably  settled.  My 
love  began  to  detest  me.  I  knew  too  much  of  female 
cunning;  there  was  no  room  for  me  in  this  world.  The 
sex  had  determined  my  physical  and  mental  destruction, 
and  my  own  wife,  as  the  avenging  fury,  had  accepted  the 
awful  and  difficult  mission  of  torturing  me  to  death. 

She  began  her  task  by  introducing  her  friend  into  the 
house  as  a  tenant,  persuading  her  to  rent  a  furnished  room 
contiguous  to  our  flat;  she  did  that  in  spite  of  my  most 
violent  opposition.  She  went  to  the  length  of  suggesting 
that  she  should  take  her  meals  with  us,  a  proposition 
which  I  fought  tooth  and  nail.  But  notwithstanding  my 
protest  and  all  my  precautions,  I  was  constantly  brought 
into  contact  with  the  intruder.  I  could  almost  fancy  that 
I  was  a  bigamist.  The  evenings  which  I  should  have 
spent  in  my  wife's  company  I  spent  by  myself,  for  she 
remained  invisible,  closeted  with  her  friend.  They  enjoyed 
themselves  in  her  room  at  my  expense,  smoking  my  cigar- 
ettes and  drinking  my  wine.  I  hated  the  woman,  and 
since  I  could  not  hide  my  feelings — at  any  rate  not 
sufficiently — I  many  a  time  brought  on  my  head  Marie's 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  209 

wrath  for  having  been  found  wanting  in  courtesy  towards 
the  "  poor  child." 

Not  satisfied  with  having  estranged  Marie  from  husband 
and  child — the  baby  was  boarded  out  with  a  neighbour, 
a  termagant  of  forty-five  years  of  age — ^the  fair  friend 
demoralised  the  cook;  the  consumption  of  beer  rose  to  the 
almost  incredible  quantity  of  five  hundred  bottles  a  month; 
my  cook  sat  in  the  kitchen  intoxicated,  fast  asleep;  the 
food  was  wasted. 

The  fair  friend  was  a  mangeuse  d'hommes,  and  I  was 
her  prey. 

One  day  Marie  showed  me  a  cloak  which  she  said  she 
wanted  to  buy.  I  disapproved  the  colour  and  cut,  and 
advised  her  to  choose  another.  The  friend,  who  happened 
to  be  present,  kept  it  for  herself,  and  I  forgot  all  about 
it.  Two  weeks  later  I  received  a  bill  for  a  cloak  bought 
by  my  wife.  I  inquired  into  the  matter  and  found  that 
Marie  had  lent  herself  to  a  trick  well  known  by  the 
theatrical  demi-monde. 

As  usual,  she  was  furious  with  me  when  I  asked  her 
to  break  off  her  connection  with  the  adventuress.  .  .  . 

And  things  grew  worse  and  worse. 

A  few  days  later  Marie,  trying  to  work  on  my  feelings, 
posing  as  the  submissive  wife,  asked  me,  quite  humbly, 
whether  I  had  any  objection  to  her  chaperoning  the  "poor 
child  "  on  a  visit  to  an  old  friend  of  her  late  father's, 
whom  she  intended  to  ask  for  a  loan.  The  request  struck 
me  as  so  strange  that  it  set  me  thinking,  especially  when 
I  took  into  account  her  friend's  bad  reputation.  I 
implored  Marie,  for  our  child's  sake,  to  open  her  eyes, 
to  rouse  herself  from  the  trance  in  which  she  seemed  to 
live,  and  which  would  surely  end  with  her  complete  ruin — 
her  only  reply  was  a  repetition  of  her  old  phrase:  "  Your 
base  imagination.     .     .     ." 

And  still  matters  declined. 


«10  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Her  friend  gave  a  luncheon  for  the  secret  purpose  of 
beguiling  on  this  occasion  a  well-known  actor  into  making 
her  a  proposal  of  marriage.  A  fresh  revelation  awaited 
me,  a  revelation  which  effectually  roused  me  from  my 
lethargy. 

Champagne  had  been  drunk,  and  the  ladies  had  taken 
more  than  was  good  for  them.  Marie  was  reclining  in 
an  arm-chair,  and  before  her  knelt  her  friend,  kissing  her 
on  the  lips.  The  famous  actor,  interested  in  the  strange 
spectacle,  called  to  one  of  his  friends,  and  pointing  at 
the  couple  as  if  he  were  bringing  proof  of  an  accusation, 
exclaimed — 

"  Look  here!     D'you  see.''  " 

Doubtless  he  was  alluding  to  certain  rumours,  and  there 
was  a  hidden  meaning  in  the  laughing  words. 

As  soon  as  we  arrived  home,  I  implored  Marie  to  shake 
off  this  fatal  infatuation  and  be  more  careful  of  her 
reputation.  She  made  no  secret  of  the  pleasure  she 
found  in  kissing  pretty  women ;  her  friend  was  not  the 
only  one  of  her  colleagues  whom  she  treated  in  this  way; 
at  the  theatre,  in  the  dressing-rooms  she  bestowed  the 
same  favour  on  others. 

She  had  no  intention  of  denying  herself  this  pleasure, 
this  innocent  pleasure,  which  in  my  perverted  imagination 
only  was  vicious. 

It  was  impossible  to  make  her  see  her  conduct  in  a 
different  light;  there  was  but  one  remedy.  .  .  . 

She  was  again  going  to  be  a  mother;  this  time  she  was 
furious,  but  her  condition  kept  her  at  home  for  a  time. 


VIII 

After  her  confinement  she  changed  her  tactics. 
Whether  she  was  influenced  by  fear  of  the  consequences 
of  her  perverted  passions,  or  whether  her  female  instincts 
had  been  reawakened,  I  cannot  say.  She  paid  a  great 
deal  of  attention  to  young  men;  but  she  did  it  too  openly 
to  make  me  really  jealous. 

Without  an  engagement,  with  nothing  to  occupy  her 
time,  full  of  whims,  despotic,  she  was  bent  on  war  with 
me  to  the  knife. 

One  day  she  tried  to  prove  to  me  that  it  was  cheaper 
to  keep  three  servants  than  two.  As  I  thought  it  waste 
of  time  to  argue  with  a  lunatic,  I  simply  turned  her  out 
of  my  room. 

She  swore  vengeance.  She  engaged  a  third  maid,  who 
was  absolutely  superfluous  in  the  house.  Consequently 
no  work  was  done  at  all.  Everything  was  turned  upside 
down,  the  three  girls  quarrelled  all  day  long,  drank  beer 
and  entertained  their  lovers  at  my  expense. 

To  complete  the  picture  of  my  matrimonial  happiness, 
one  of  my  children  fell  ill.  This  brought  two  more 
servants  into  the  house  and  the  visits  of  two  doctors.  At 
the  end  of  the  month  I  had  to  face  a  deficit  of  five 
hundred  crowns.  I  redoubled  my  energies  to  meet  the 
expenses,  but  the  strain  on  my  nerves  was  beginning  to 
tell. 

She  was  for  ever  taunting  me  with  having  squandered 
her  more  than  doubtful  dowry,  and  forced  me  to  make  an 
allowance  to  her  launt  in  Copenhagen.  This  "woman 
accused    me    of   having   wasted    her    "  fortune,"    and   her 

211 


212  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

incredibly  silly  arguments  irritated  me  beyond  endurance. 
She  affirmed  that  Marie's  mother,  on  her  deathbed,  had 
distinctly  expressed  the  wish  that  she  should  share  my 
wife's  inheritance.  I  failed  to  see  what  that  had  to  do 
with  me,  for  the  "  fortune "  which  she  was  to  inherit 
existed  in  imagination  only;  but  the  fact  remained  that 
the  burden  of  the  aunt,  who  was  lazy  and  incapable,  was 
added  to  my  other  burdens.  I  gave  way  in  the  matter; 
I  even  agreed  to  guarantee  a  sum  of  money,  raised  by  an 
older  friend,  adventuress  number  one,  for  my  beloved  wife 
had  hit  on  the  idea  of  selling  me  her  favour.  I  admitted 
everything  for  the  privilege  of  kissing  her;  I  admitted 
having  wasted  her  dowry,  squandered  her  aunt's  "  fortune," 
ruined  her  theatrical  career  by  marrying  her,  even  having 
undermined  her  health. 

Holy  matrimony  was  degraded  to  legal  prostitution. 

She  carefully  treasured  up  all  my  admissions,  and 
worked  them  into  a  legend  which  the  papers  greedily 
snapped  up  later  on,  and  which  was  assiduously  spread  by 
all  those  of  her  friends  whom  I  had  turned  out,  one  after 
the  other. 

My  ruin  had  become  an  obsession  with  her.  At  the 
end  of  the  year  I  found  that  I  had  given  her  twelve 
thousand  crowns  for  household  expenses,  and  I  was  com- 
pelled to  ask  my  publishers  for  a  sum  in  advance. 

Whenever  I  reproached  her  with  her  extravagance,  she 
invariably  replied — 

"  Well,  why  have  children  and  make  your  wife  miser- 
able? When  I  consider  that  I  gave  up  a  splendid  position 
to  marry  you.  ..." 

But  I  had  an  answer  to  that  taunt — 

"  As  Baroness,  my  dear,  your  husband  gave  you  three 
thousand  crowns  and  debts.  I  give  you  three  times  as 
much,  more  than  three  times  as  much." 

She  said  nothing,   but  she  turned   her  back  upon   me. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  213 

and  in  the  evening  I  admitted  all  her  charges;  I  agreed 
that  three  thousand  is  three  times  as  much  as  ten  thou- 
sand !  that  I  was  a  blackguard,  a  miser,  a  "  bel  ami,"  who 
had  risen  at  the  expense  of  his  adored  wife,  adored  more 
especially  in  her  nightgown. 

She  poured  all  her  venom  into  the  first  chapter  of  a 
novel,  the  subject  of  which  was  the  exploitation  of  an 
oppressed  wife  by  a  criminal  husband.  Through  my  writ- 
ings, on  the  other  hand,  always  glided  the  white  wraith 
of  a  lovely  golden-haired  woman,  a  madonna,  a  yoimg 
mother.  I  was  for  ever  chanting  her  praises,  creating  a 
glorious  myth  roimd  the  figure  of  the  wondrous  woman 
who  by  God's  grace  had  been  sent  to  brighten  the  thorny 
path  of  a  poet.  .  .  . 

And  the  critics  never  tired  of  lauding  the  "  good 
genius  "  of  a  pessimistic  novelist,  of  pouring  on  her  full 
measures  of  entirely  undeserved  praise.  .  .  . 

The  more  I  suffered  under  the  persecutions  of  my 
shrew,  the  more  eagerly  I  strove  to  weave  a  crown  of 
light  for  her  sacred  head.  The  more  I  was  depressed 
by  the  reality,  the  more  I  became  inspired  by  my 
hallucinations  of  her  loveliness  .  .  .  alas  for  the  magic  of 
love ! 


IX 

MIDSUMMER  IN  WINTER 

Winter  night,  the  streets  forsaken, 

Ice-king  holds  the  world  in  thrall; 
Sudden  gusts  of  wind  awaken 
Eerie  sounds,  the  walls  are  shaken 
By  the  wild,  rebellious  call. 

Gay  as  gods  we  have  been  dining. 

All  alone,  just  you  and  I. 
Light  the  candles,  let  their  shining 
Drive   out   darkness  and  repining, 

Perfect  joy  is  nigh. 

Draw  the  blinds,  the  shutters  tighten! 

Safely  screened  from  prying  eyes, 
Take  the  cup  and  pledge  me!  brighten 
Winter-gloom  with  song,  and  lighten 

Darkness  with   sweet   harmonies. 

Sing  of  woods,  or  sing  the  wonder 

Of  the  sea,  serene  and  bland; 
Or  the  sea,  that  lashed  asunder 
Breaks  in  crashing  peals  of  thunder 
On  the  foam-flecked  sand. 

Like  a  great  enchanted  river. 

Full  of  witchcraft   is  your  voice; 

See  my  pelargoniums  quiver 

Like  a  leafy  wood  a-shiver 

In  the  breeze  when   daylight   dies. 

On  my  screen,  her  ensign  flying. 
Leaps  a  brig  with  white  sails  set; 

Snugly  on  the  hearthrug  lying 

Silky  fur  with  sable  vying. 
Sleeps   your   Persian    cat. 

In  the  mirror's  clear  perspective 

I  can  see  our  little  home; 
Wrapped  in  dreams,  my  introspective 
Humour  conjures  up  affective 

Scenes  of  past  joys,  joys  to  come. 
214 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  215 

On  the  desk  where  I  was  writing 

Falls  the  candle's  mellow  glow; 
Falls  on  virgin  sheets,  exciting 
Eose-warm  blushes,  softly  lighting 

Their  unblemished  snow. 

In  your  chamber's   sweet  seclusion, 

Hung  with  green,  a  vernal  nook, 
I  can  glimpse  a  wild  confusion — 
Tangled  skeins  in  rank  profusion 

Cover  work   and  household  book.    ' 

In  the  glass  our  eyes  are  meeting; 

Flashing  blue,  like  tempered  steel 
Are  your  glances,  but  a  fleeting 
Smile  from  tender  lips  in  greeting, 

Tells  me  that  your  heart  is  leal. 

Badiant  brow,  my  soul  entrancing. 

Puts  the  candle-light  to  shame; 
From  your  jewels  flashing,  dancing 
Sparks  are  flying  and  enhancing 

Long-lashed  eyes'   alluring  flame. 

Hush!  the  bell   disturbs  the   slumber 

Of  the  house — the  postman's  ring! 
Let  him  be!     His  dreary  lumber 
Shall  not  darken  and  encimiber 

Love's  eternal  spring. 

Letter-box  holds  proofs  and  letters 

Safely  under  lock  and  key; 
Sing  and  play!      Till  mom  unfetters 
These  officious  care-begetters 

Love    our    guerdon   be. 

Sing,  beloved,  my  soul's  desire! 

World  holds  naught  but  you  and  me; 
Sing  with  lips  no  love  can  tire, 
Sing  of  passion's  quenchless  fire. 

Fill  the  night  with  ecstasy! 


There  were  times  when  I  had  no  doubt  that  my  wife 
hated  me  and  wished  to  get  rid  of  me  in  order  to  marry 
again. 

Sometimes  strange  reflections  in  the  expression  of  her 
face  made  me  suspect  her  of  having  a  lover,  and  her  cold- 
ness towards  me  strengthened  my  suspicion;  all  of  a 
sudden  my  smouldering  jealousy  burst  into  fierce  flames, 
our  marriage  was  shaken  to  its  very  foundations,  and  hell 
opened  wide  at  our  feet. 

My  wife  declared  that  she  was  ill,  suffering  from  some 
vague  disease  of  the  spine  or  the  back,  she  was  uncertain 
which. 

I  sent  for  the  family  doctor,  an  old  college  friend  of 
mine.  He  diagnosed  rheumatic  knots  on  the  muscles  of 
the  back,  and  prescribed  a  course  of  massage.  I  had  no 
objection  to  make,  for  there  seemed  to  be  no  doubt  of  the 
reality  of  the  disease.  As  I  had  no  idea  of  the  intimate 
nature  of  the  treatment,  I  remained  completely  absorbed 
in  my  literary  work,  and  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  the 
progress  of  the  cure.  My  wife  did  not  appear  to  be 
dangerously  ill,  for  she  came  and  went  as  usual,  visited 
the  theatres,  never  refused  an  invitation,  and  was  always 
the  last  to  leave  a  party. 

One  evening,  at  a  small  gathering  of  friends,  some  one 
suddenly  began  to  bewail  the  dearth  of  lady  doctors.  The 
speaker  maintained  that  it  must  be  very  impleasant  for  a 
woman  to  undress  before  a  stranger,  and,  turning  to 
Marie,  he  said — 

"  Am  I  not  right?     Isn't  it  very  impleasant?  " 

216 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  217 

"  Oh !  a  doctor  doesn't  count." 

The  nature  of  the  treatment  was  revealed  to  me  by 
a  sudden  flash,  I  noticed  an  expression  of  sensuality  on 
Marie's  face,  an  expression  which  had  puzzled  me  for  some 
time,  and  a  terrible  suspicion  gripped  my  heart.  She 
undressed  before  a  notorious  voluptuary!  And  I  had 
been  completely  ignorant  of  it. 

When  we  were  alone,  I  asked  her  for  an  explanation. 

She  described  the  treatment,  apparently  quite  uncon- 
cerned. 

"  But  don't  you  mind?  " 

"  Why  should  I  mind  ?  " 

"  You  always  appeared  to  me  almost  prudish  in  your 
modesty." 

Two  days  later  the  doctor  called  to  see  one  of  the 
children.  Seated  in  my  room,  I  overheard  a  more  than 
strange  conversation  between  him  and  my  wife.  They 
were  laughing  and  whispering. 

Presently  they  entered  my  room,  the  smile  still  on 
their  lips.  Plunged  in  sinister  speculations,  my  mind 
kept  wandering  from  the  subject  of  our  conversation;  by 
and  by  it  drifted  to  women  patients. 

"  You  thoroughly  understand  women's  complaints, 
don't  you,  old  boy }  "  I  said. 

Marie  looked  at  me.  She  was  furious.  There  was  so 
much  hatred  blazing  in  her  eyes  that  I  felt  a  cold  thrill 
running  down  my  back. 

When  the  doctor  had  left,  she  turned  on  me  furiously. 

"  Prostitute !  "  I  flung  the  word  into  her  face.  It 
escaped  my  lips  against  my  will,  giving  expression  to  an 
intuitive  flash  which  I  had  not  had  time  to  analyse.  The 
insult  came  home  to  me  and  oppressed  me.  My  eyes 
fell  on  the  children,  and  with  a  contrite  heart  I  apologised. 

But  she  remained  angry,  so  angry  that  nothing  would 
soften  her. 


218  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

To  make  amends  for  the  great  injustice  which  I  had 
done  her,  and  to  some  extent,  also,  influenced  by  her 
hatred,  I  conceived  the  idea  of  arranging  for  her  a 
pleasure  trip  to  Finland  in  the  shape  of  a  theatrical  tour, 
extending  over  several  weeks. 

I  started  negotiations  with  theatrical  managers,  suc- 
ceeded in  coming  to  terms,  and  raised  the  money. 

She  went  to  Finland,  where  she  won  patriotic  victories 
and  a  number  of  laurel  wreaths. 

I  was  left  alone  with  the  children.  I  fell  ill.  Believing 
myself  to  be  on  the  point  of  death,  I  sent  her  a  telegram, 
asking  her  to  return  home.  As  she  had  fulfilled  all  her 
engagements,  this  did  not  interfere  with  business. 

On  her  return  I  was  better;  she  accused  me  of  having 
brought  her  back  on  false  pretences,  telegraphed  lies, 
merely  to  take  her  away  from  her  relations  and  her 
native  coimtry.  .  .  . 

Soon  after  her  return  I  noticed  a  new  phase,  a  phase 
which  filled  me  with  increased  uneasiness.  Contrary  to 
her  former  habits,  she  gave  herself  to  me  unreservedly. 

What  was  the  reason?  I  wondered,  but  I  felt  no 
inclination  to  probe  too  deeply.  .  .  . 

On  the  next  morning  and  the  days  which  followed  she 
talked  of  nothing  but  the  pleasant  time  she  had  spent  in 
Finland.  Carried  away  for  the  moment  by  her  memories, 
she  told  me  that  she  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  an 
engineer  on  the  steamer,  an  enlightened,  up-to-date  man, 
who  had  convinced  her  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
sin  in  the  abstract,  and  that  circumstances  and  destiny 
alone  were  responsible  for  all  happenings. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,"  I  agreed,  "  but  for  all  that  our 
actions  do  not  fail  to  draw  their  consequences  after  them. 
I  admit  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  sin,  because  there  is 
no  personal  God;  nevertheless  we  are  responsible  to  those 
we  wrong.     There  may  be  no  sin  in  the  abstract,  but  crime 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  219 

will  exist  as  long  as  there  is  a  Law.  We  may  smile  at  the 
theological  oonception  of  it,  but  vengeance  or,  rather, 
retribution,  remains  a  fact,  and  the  aggressor  never 
escapes." 

She  had  grown  grave,  but  pretended  not  to  understand 
me. 

"  Only  the  wicked  revenge  themselves,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  Agreed;  but  with  so  many  wicked  people  in  the  world, 
who  can  be  sure  that  he  is  dealing  with  a  man  brave 
enough  not  to  retaliate.''  " 

"  Fate  guides  our  actions." 

"  True ;  but  Fate  also  guides  the  dagger  of  the 
avenger." 

...  At  the  end  of  the  month  she  had  a  miscarriage, 
sufficient  proof,  I  thought,  of  her  infidelity.  And  from 
that  moment  suspicion  grew  slowly  into  certainty  and 
filled  my  heart  with  bitterness. 

She  did  her  utmost  to  persuade  me  that  I  was  "  mad," 
that  my  suspicions  were  but  the  figments  of  an  overworked 
brain.  And  once  again  she  forgave  me.  To  mark  our 
reconciliation  I  wrote  a  play  containing  a  splendid  part 
for  her,  a  part  which  it  was  impossible  to  ruin.  On  the 
seventeenth  of  August  I  handed  her  the  play  together 
with  the  deed  of  gift,  which  conferred  on  her  all  the 
rights.  She  could  do  with  it  what  she  liked  as  long  as 
she  herself  played  the  part  which  I  had  written  for  her. 
It  was  the  result  of  two  months'  strenuous  work.  She 
accepted  it  without  a  word  of  thanks,  a  sacrifice  due  to 
Her  Majesty,  the  second-rate  actress. 


XI 

Our  housekeeping  went  from  bad  to  worse.  I  was 
unable  to  interfere,  for  she  regarded  every  opinion  ex- 
pressed by  me,  every  suggestion  of  a  change  made  by  me, 
as  an  insult.  I  had  to  remain  passive,  powerless  in  face  of 
the  wanton  extravagance  of  the  servants  who  wasted  the 
food  and  neglected  the  children. 

There  was  nothing  but  misery,  discomfort  and  quarrels. 

When  she  returned  from  her  journey  to  Finland,  the 
expenses  of  which  I  had  paid  in  advance,  she  had  two 
himdred  crowns  in  her  pocket,  the  financial  result  of  her 
performances.  .  .  .  Since  she  kept  the  cash  I  made  a 
mental  note  of  the  sum,  and  when  she  asked  me  for  money, 
long  before  the  date  on  which  it  was  due,  I  asked  her, 
surprised  by  the  unexpected  demand,  what  she  had  done 
with  her  money?  She  replied  that  she  had  lent  it  to  her 
friend,  and  argued  that  according  to  the  law  she  was  free 
to  dispose  of  all  moneys  earned  by  her. 

"  And  I  ? "  I  replied,  .  .  .  Moreover,  to  withdraw 
housekeeping  money  is  not  disposing.  .  .  . 

"  It's  a  different  thing  in  the  case  of  the  woman !  " 

"  In  the  case  of  the  oppressed  woman,  you  mean?  In 
the  case  of  the  female  slave  who  permits  the  man  to 
defray  the  whole  expenses  of  the  household?  These  are 
the  logical  consequences  of  the  humbug  called  '  the 
emancipation  of  woman.'  " 

Emile  Augier's  prophesies  in  the  Fourchatnbault,  with 
reference  to  the  dotal  system  have  indeed  been  ful- 
filled. The  husband  has  become  the  slave  of  the  wife. 
And  there  are  plenty  of  men  who  allow  themselves  to  be 

220 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  221 

deceived  to  such  an  extent  that  they  dig  their  own  graves. 
Fools ! 

While  the  misery  of  my  married  life  slowly  unfolded 
itself,  as  a  ribbon  winds  off  a  spool,  I  took  advantage  of 
my  literary  reputation  to  tilt  at  foolish  prejudice  and 
attack  antiquated  superstitions.  I  wrote  a  volume  of 
satires.  I  threw  a  handful  of  pebbles  at  the  principal 
charlatans  of  the  metropolis,  not  forgetting  the  sexless 
women. 

I  was  at  once  denounced  as  a  writer  of  pamphlets. 
Marie  was  strong  in  her  disapproval,  and  immediately 
made  friends  with  the  enemy.  She  was  respectability 
personified,  and  complained  bdtterly  of  the  misery  of 
being  tied  to  a  scandalmonger !  She  lost  sight  of  the  fact 
that  the  satirist  was  also  a  famous  novelist  and  had  made 
a  name  as  a  playwright. 

She  was  a  saint,  a  martyr.  She  deplored  the  dismal 
prospects  of  her  unhappy  children.  They  would  have  to 
bear  the  consequences  of  the  dishonourable  actions  of  a 
father  who  had  squandered  their  mother's  dowry,  ruined 
her  theatrical  career,  ill-treated  her.  .  ,  . 

One  day  a  paragraph  appeared  in  one  of  the  papers 
stating  that  I  was  insane;  a  brochure,  written  to  order 
and  paid  for  in  cash,  spread  abroad  the  martyrdom  of 
Marie  and  her  friends;  not  one  of  the  absurdities  which 
her  little  brain  had  hatched  was  forgotten. 

She  had  won  the  game. 

And  as  she  saw  me  go  down  before  my  enemies,  she 
assumed  the  role  of  the  tender  mother,  weeping  over  the 
prodigal  son.  Amiable  to  all  the  world,  except  to  me,  she 
drew  all  my  friends  over  to  her  side,  false  ones  and  true 
ones  alike.  Isolated,  in  the  power  of  a  vampire,  I  aban- 
doned all  attempt  at  defence.  Could  I  raise  my  hand 
against  the  mother  of  my  children,  the  woman  whom  I 
loved  ? 


222  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Never ! 

I    succumbed.  She    surrounded    me     with     kindness — 

abroad,   at   home  she    had    nothing    for   me    but   contempt 
and  insults. 

I  was  exhausted  by  overwork  and  misery ;  I  suffered 
much  from  headaches,  nervous  irritability,  indigestion 
.  .  .  the  doctor  diagnosed  catarrh  of  the  stomach. 

It  was  a  very  unexpected  result  of  mental  strain. 

It  was  strange  that  the  illness  did  not  break  out  until 
after  I  had  decided  to  go  abroad,  the  only  means  of 
escape,  so  it  seemed  to  me,  from  the  net  woven  round  me 
by  those  countless  friends  who  were  everlastinglj'^  condol- 
ing with  my  wife.  The  symptoms  of  this  mysterious 
malady  first  showed  themselves  on  the  day  succeeding  a 
visit  to  the  laboratory  of  an  old  friend,  from  where  I 
had  taken  a  bottle  of  cyanide;  it  was  to  bring  me  release, 
and  I  had  locked  it  in  a  piece  of  furniture  belonging  to 
my  wife. 

Paralysed  and  depressed,  I  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  watch- 
ing my  children  at  play,  thinking  of  the  beautiful  days 
that  lay  behind  me,  preparing  myself  for  death. 

I  determined  to  leave  nothing  in  writing  which  could 
throw  light  on  the  cause  of  my  death  and  my  sinister 
suspicions. 

I  was  ready  to  make  my  exit,  disappear  from  ken,  killed 
by  the  woman  whom  I  forgave  with  my  last  breath. 

Marie  was  watching  me  out  of  the  comers  of  her  eyes; 
wondering,  perhaps,  how  much  longer  I  should  linger 
on  this  earth,  before  I  left  her  to  enjoy  in  peace  the 
income  which  the  collected  works  of  the  famous  writer 
would  yield  her,  and  the  sum  which  doubtless  Government 
would  grant  her  towards  the  education  of  the  children. 

She  was  a  success  in  my  play,  so  big  a  success  that  the 
critics  called  her  a  great  tragedienne.     She  almost  burst 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  223 

with  pride.  She  was  allowed  to  choose  her  next  part; 
the  result  was  a  complete  fiasco.  Now  she  could  no 
longer  deny  the  fact  that  it  was  I  who  had  made  her, 
that  she  had  to  thank  me  for  her  laurels,  and  feeling 
herself  in  my  debt,  the  strength  of  her  hatred  increased. 
She  beseiged  the  various  theatrical  managers,  but  could 
find  no  engagement.  Eventually  I  was  obliged  to  reopen 
negotiations  with  Finland.  I  was  willing  to  leave  my 
country,  my  friends,  my  publisher,  to  settle  in  the  midst 
of  her  friends  who  were  my  enemies.  But  Finland  would 
have  none  of  her.    Her  career  was  over. 

During  all  this  time  she  led  the  life  of  a  woman  free 
from  all  duties  as  mother  and  wife.  My  health  did  not 
permit  me  to  accompany  her  to  the  artistic  circles  which 
she  frequented,  and  consequently  she  went  alone.  Some- 
times she  did  not  come  home  until  early  in  the  morning, 
very  often  she  was  intoxicated  and  made  sufficient  noise 
to  wake  up  the  whole  house.  I  could  hear  her  stumbling 
into  the  night  nursery  where  she  slept. 

What  is  a  man  to  do  in  a  case  of  this  sort?  Is  he  to 
denounce  his  own  wife?  Impossible!  Divorce  her?  No! 
I  looked  upon  the  family  as  an  organism,  like  the  organism 
of  a  plant;  a  whole,  of  which  I  was  a  part.  I  could  not 
exist  independently  of  it;  without  the  mother,  life  seemed 
impossible  to  me,  even  if  I  had  had  the  custody  of  the 
children.  My  heart's  blood,  transmitted  through  my  wife, 
flowed  through  the  veins  of  their  small  bodies.  The  whole 
was  like  a  system  of  arteries  intimately  connected  and 
interdependent.  If  a  single  one  were  cut,  my  life  would 
ebb  away  with  the  blood  which  trickled  down  and  was 
sucked  up  by  the  sand.  For  this  reason  the  infidelity  of 
the  wife  is  a  terrible  crime.  One  cannot  help  sympathis- 
ing with  the  "  Kill  her !  "  of  a  well-known  author,  who 
shows  us  a  father  stricken  to  death  because  he  has  come 
to  doubt  the  legitimacy  of  his  offspring. 


224  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Marie,  on  the  other  hand,  identified  herself  with  the 
crazy  endeavours  to  increase  women's  rights  and  liberties, 
an4  fully  endorsed  the  new  doctrine  that  the  woman  who 
deceives  her  husband  is  not  guilty,  because  she  is  not  his 
property. 

I  could  not  degrade  myself  to  spy  on  her,  I  did  not 
want  proof  which  meant  death  to  me.  I  wanted  to  deceive 
myself,  live  in  a  world  of  my  own,  which  I  could  create 
at  my  pleasure. 

But  I  was  deeply  wounded.  I  doubted  the  legitimacy 
of  my  children;  I  was  haunted  by  the  suspicion  that 
although  they  bore  my  name  and  were  supported  by  my 
earnings,  they  were  yet  not  my  children.  Nevertheless, 
I  loved  them,  for  they  had  come  into  my  life  as  a  pledge 
of  my  future  existence.  Deprived  of  the  hope  to  live 
again  in  my  children,  I  floated  in  mid-air,  like  a  pwwr 
phantom,  breathing  through  roots  which  were  not  my 
own. 

Marie  seemed  to  lose  patience,  because  I  lingered  so 
long.  It  was  true  before  witnesses  she  treated  me  with  the 
tender  love  of  a  mother,  but  when  no  one  was  present 
she  tortured  me,  just  as  the  little  acrobat  is  pinched  by 
his  father  behind  the  scenes.  She  tried  to  hasten  my  end 
by  cruelty.  She  invented  a  new  torture;  justifying  her 
conduct  with  my  temporary  weakness,  she  treated  me  as 
if  I  were  a  cripple.  One  day,  proudly  boasting  of  her 
physical  strength,  she  threatened  to  strike  me.  She 
rushed  at  me,  but  I  seized  her  by  the  wrists  and  forced 
her  down  on  the  sofa. 

"  Admit  that  I  am  the  stronger,  in  spite  of  my 
illness ! " 

She  did  not  admit  it;  she  merely  looked  disconcerted, 
and,  furious  at  having  made  a  mistake,  she  left  the  room, 
sulking. 

In  our  mutual  struggle  she  had  all  the  advantages  of 
the   woman    and    actress.     It   was    impossible    for   me,     a 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  225 

hardworking  man,  to  hold  my  own  against  an  idle  woman 
who  spent  all  her  time  spinning  intrigues.  In  an  unequal 
struggle  of  this  sort  the  man  is  certain  to  be  caught  in 
the  end  in  a  net  which  enmeshes  him  on  all  sides. 

"  In  love,"  said  Napoleon,  that  most  excellent  judge  of 
women,  "  one  only  wins  by  flight."  But  how  could  a 
carefully  guarded  prisoner  escape?  and  as  for  a  man 
sentenced  to  death  .  .  . 

My  brain  recovered  after  a  rest,  and  I  conceived  a  plan 
of  escape  from  this  stronghold,  although  it  was  most  care- 
fully guarded  by  my  wife  and  the  friends  which  she  had 
so  successfully  duped.  I  used  cunning;  I  wrote  a  letter 
to  the  doctor  in  which  I  expressed  a  haunting  dread  of 
insanity,  and  suggested  a  trip  abroad  as  a  remedy.  The 
doctor  fell  in  with  my  suggestion,  and  I  at  once  informed 
Marie  of  his  opinion  against  which  there  was  no  appeal. 

"  By  doctor's  orders !  " 

Her  very  formula  when  she  had  successfully  dictated 
to  the  doctor  the  treatment  she  wished  him  to  prescribe 
for  her. 

She  grew  pale  when  she  heard  it. 

"  I  don't  want  to  leave  my  country !  " 

"  Your  country  ?  .  .  .  Finland's  your  country !  And 
as  far  as  I  know,  there  is  nothing  in  Sweden  which  you 
could  possibly  miss ;  you  have  no  relations  here,  no  friends, 
no  career." 

"  I  refuse  to  accompany  you !  " 

"Why?" 

She  hesitated,  and  after  a  while  continued — 

"  Because  I'm  afraid  of  you !  I  won't  be  left  alone 
with  you ! " 

"  You  are  afraid  of  a  lamb  that  you  lead  by  the  nose  ? 
You  aren't  serious ! " 

**  You  are  a  knave,  and  I  won't  stay  with  you  unpro- 
tected ! " 


226  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

I  felt  sure  that  she  had  a  lover.  Or  else  she  was  afraid 
of  my  discovering  her  indiscretions. 

So  she  was  afraid  of  me,  of  me  who  crouched  at  her  feet 
like  a  dog,  whose  leonine  mane  she  had  clipped,  leaving 
him  but  a  fringe  like  a  horse's;  who  waxed  his  moustache 
and  wore  up  and  down  collars,  to  be  better  equipped  for 
the  struggle  with  dangerous  rivals.  Her  fear  of  me 
increased  my  dread  and  stimulated  my  suspicions. 

"  This  woman  has  a  lover  whom  she  is  loath  to  leave,  or 
else  she  is  afraid  of  retribution,"  I  said  to  myself. 

After  endless  discussions  she  wheedled  a  promise  out  of 
me  to  stay  away  no  longer  than  a  year. 

The  will  to  live  returned,  and  I  eagerly  finished  a 
volume  of  poems  which  was  to  be  published  in  the  winter 
following  my  departure. 

Summer  in  my  heart,  I  sang  with  fresh  inspiration.  I 
sang  of  my  beloved  wife  as  she  appeared  to  me  on  the 
day  of  our  first  meeting,  a  blue  veil  fluttering  from  her 
straw  hat,  a  blue  veil  which  became  the  flag  which  I 
hoisted  when  I  sailed  into  the  stormy  sea.  One  evening 
I  read  this  poem  to  a  friend.  Marie  listened  with  pro- 
found attention.  When  I  had  finished  she  burst  into 
tears,  put  her  anns  round  me  and  kissed  me. 

A  perfect  actress,  she  played  before  my  friend  the  part 
of  the  loving  wife.  And  the  simpleton  regarded  me  from 
that  day  as  a  jealous  fool  whom  heaven  had  blessed  with 
the  sweetest  of  wives. 

"  She  loves  you,  old  boy,"  my  friend  assured  me  again 
and  again.  And  four  years  later  he  reminded  me  of  the 
scene  as  a  convincing  proof  of  her  fidelity. 

"  I  swear  to  you  at  that  moment  she  was  sincere,"  he 
reiterated. 

Sincere  in  her  remorse,  perhaps !  Face  to  face  with 
my  love  which  transformed  the  wanton  into  a  madonna. 
It  was  not  very  surprising. 


XII 


8UN-MI8T8 


He  looked  round  anxiously  to  see  if  everything  was 
there,  as  if  it  were  possible  to  see  anything  at  all  in  that 
confusion  of  people  and  luggage  on  the  upper  deck. 

He  felt  guilty  of  an  unknown  crime,  until  the  steamer 
had  passed  the  mill.  He  was  dazzled  by  the  blinding 
sun,  the  sea  appeared  to  be  boundless,  and  the  hazy  blue 
mountains  called  him  with  irresistible  force.  His  eyes 
fell  on  the  children's  perambulator;  the  one  painted  white 
with  the  blue  cover,  not  the  other  one;  he  knew  it  so 
well,  there  were  little  white  milkspots  on  the  blue  cover. 
And  over  there  was  the  big  arm-chair  and  the  drawing- 
room  sofa  and  the  bath  with  the  flower-pots.  How  dusty 
the  poor  things  looked,  they  had  spent  the  whole  winter 
in  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke;  the  pelargoniums  used  to 
stand  on  the  writing-table  in  the  lamplight,  in  the  early 
spring,  when  the  evenings  were  still  long;  the  arm-chair 
stood  to  the  right  of  the  writing-table,  and  whenever  he 
looked  up  from  his  work,  whenever  the  restless  pen  stopped 
for  a  second,  he  received  a  friendly  nod.  But  when  there 
was  no  one  sitting  in  the  arm-chair,  his  tired  eyes  travelled 
to  the  cretonne  flowers  on  the  sofa;  but  there  were  so 
many  eyes  staring  into  the  room,  and  how  the  lamp 
flickered !  Ah !  it  was  the  sun  shining  on  the  upper  deck ! 
What  was  that  over  there?  A  pair  of  eyes  familiar  last 
year — how  dull  they  were !  Had  he  been  ill  ?  No ! 
They  had  not  met  since  last  year;  one  never  met  in  town, 
one  was  so  busy  there!     One  left  one's  school  and  went 

227 


228  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

home!  The  children  had  had  measles.  ...  It  was  cold 
on  deck,  he  had  better  go  downstairs  into  the  saloon. 

There  were  the  eyes  again,  staring  at  the  sofa  and  the 
arm-chair.  But  they  looked  happy,  longing,  yearning 
for  something  which  must  surely  happen. 

He  left  his  place  and  stepped  forward  to  let  the  fresh 
breeze  cool  his  face.  Smoke  and  the  smell  of  food  were 
rising  from  the  kitchen.  There  was  the  cook,  taking  a  rest, 
trying  to  grow  cool.     And  the  large  cabin ! 

The  table-cloth  was  as  white  as  it  had  been  last  year, 
the  silver  epergne  sj>arkled  as  before,  the  flowers  on  the 
sideboard  were  as  new  and  fresh,  the  lamps  were  swing- 
ing in  their  brass  brackets ;  everything  was  exactly  as  it 
had  been  before,  and  yet  everything  was  new,  thanks  to 
the  ever-rejuvenating  power  of  nature,  thanks  to  spring! 

And  the  shore  glided  j>ast,  a  long,  triumphant  march 
past,  now  threatening  and  sinister,  now  happy  and 
smiling,  but  always  new,  endowed  with  eternal  youth. 

He  was  the  helpless  sport  of  gloomy  dreams;  he  was 
pressed  in  between  houses  in  narrow,  dark  streets;  he  was 
at  the  bottom  of  a  well;  he  was  trying  to  creep  through 
a  tunnel  and  was  held  fast;  bricks  were  being  heaped  on 
his  breast,  when  he  was  awakened  by  a  loud  knocking  at 
the  window  shutters.  He  jumped  up,  but  the  room  was 
pitch  dark;  he  opened  the  shutters  and  a  sea  of  light  and 
green  greeted  his  eyes.  Oh,  Nature!  Reality  which 
surpasses  all  dreams! 

Behold,  you  dreamer,  your  brain  could  never  invent 
such  a  dream,  and  yet  you  would  talk  of  cold  reality! 

The  morning  sun  was  shining  on  an  August  landscape. 
He  put  a  piece  of  bread  in  his  pocket,  slung  his  drinking- 
cup  across  his  shoulder,  took  a  stick  and  a  basket  and 
went  out  in  search  of  sport — sport,  not  bloodshed. 

His  path  lay  between  oak  trees  and  hazels;  autumn 
flowers  grew  here,  flowers  which  had  waited  until  after 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  229 

the  passing  of  the  scythe  before  they  appeared,  so  that 
they  could  enjoy  life  undisturbed  until  the  frost  killed 
them.  He  crossed  the  stubble  field,  climbed  over  the 
fence,  and  the  sport  began. 

On  the  short,  springy  turf,  woven  of  reed-grass  and 
stunted  mudwort,  the  mushrooms  lay  scattered  like  new- 
laid  eggs,  waiting  for  the  sun  to  enable  them  to  fulfil 
their  destiny  before  they  decayed;  but  that  was  impossible 
now,  since  fate  had  decreed  that  they  should  die  in  their 
youth. 

He  left  the  battlefield  and  entered  the  forest  with  its 
odour  of  turpentine — health  and  sick-room — balm  for  the 
wounded  breast,  as  the  saying  is;  he  walked  below  the 
branches  in  a  dead  calm,  while  twenty  yards  above  his 
head  the  tempest  shrieked.  A  woodcock  flew  up ;  the 
branches  rattled.      If  only  he  had  a  gun! 

Why  does  a  man  long  for  a  gun  whenever  he  happens 
to  come  across  a  harmless  creature  of  the  woods.''  There 
are  many  occasions  in  life  when  a  gun  would  be  much 
more  in  its  place. 

Here  was  a  cart  track;  the  wheels  of  the  cart,  drawn 
by  oxen,  had  cut  deeply  into  the  turf;  nevertheless,  a 
red  species  of  the  poisonous  spit-devils  had  shot  up  in  the 
ruts;  maybe  they  required  strake-nails  and  kicks  from 
the  hoofs  of  oxen  before  they  could  enter  into  material 
existence. 

The  wood  opened  out  and  the  path  ceased  at  a  place 
where  many  trees  had  been  felled;  before  him  lay  what 
remained  of  the  giants  of  the  forest,  cut  down  by  the  axe 
because  it  had  been  impossible  to  dig  them  up  with  the 
roots.  He  gazed  at  a  huge  stump  which  had  been  attacked 
by  a  host  of  fungi  of  all  sizes;  they  had  settled  on  it  as 
a  swarm  of  flies  settles  on  carrion,  but  their  crowd  was 
densest  round  the  decayed  parts  which  they  could  over- 
come more  easily;  they  looked  starved,  pale  and  bloodless; 


280  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

they  were  neither  pretty  nor  poisonous^  like  the  spit-devils ; 
they  were  merely  useful. 

Denser  and  darker  grew  the  wood;  the  Scotch  firs 
mingled  their  branches  with  the  moss  which  covered  the 
ground,  embraced  the  stones  and  built  cool  little  huts  for 
the  yellow  merulius  which  grew  embedded  in  the  moss  and 
enjoyed  a  short  life,  protected  alike  from  scorching  sun 
and  preying  insects. 

The  ground  became  damp;  the  bog-myrtle,  in  times 
gone  by  highly  valued  and  eagerly  gathered  on  accoimt 
of  its  medicinal  qualities,  grew  vmdisturbed  between  tiny 
hillocks,  at  the  foot  of  degenerated  grey  pines  which  had 
died  of  superabundance.  A  woodpecker  hammered  high 
above  and  stopped  every  now  and  then  to  listen  whether 
the  sound  betrayed  a  hollow.  The  sun's  rays  were 
scorching;  the  grovmd  became  stony,  the  wood  opened 
again;  he  could  hear  a  low,  muffled  roar;  fresh  breezes, 
laden  with  the  smell  of  oysters,  cooled  his  face;  he  caught 
glimpses  of  a  shining  blue  expanse  through  the  lower 
branches  of  the  Scotch  firs. 

A  few  more  steps  up  the  incline — and  before  him 
lay  the  sea — the  sea!  The  waves  leaped  up  the  cliffs 
and  were  thrown  down  again,  only  to  begin  their  game 
afresh. 

Off  with  the  clothes  and  down  into  the  deep!  What 
was  it  that  he  saw  down  there  for  the  space  of  a  moment? 
A  different  world,  where  the  trees  were  red  like  seaweed 
and  the  air  emerald  green  like  the  waves;  now  he  was 
again  on  the  surface  amid  the  bellowing,  fighting  breakers ; 
he  fought  with  them  until  he  was  tired;  he  lay  on  his 
back  and  floated;  they  threw  him  up  sky-high,  they 
dragged  him  down  into  dark  chasms,  as  if  they  meant  to 
throw  him  into  the  abyss;  he  ceased  to  wish,  he  ceased 
to  will;  he  made  no  resistance;  his  body  had  lost  all 
weight;  the  law  of  gravity  no  longer  applied  to  him;  he 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  231 

floated  between  water  and  air — in  absolute  calm,  devoid 
of  all  sensation. 

He  let  the  waves  carry  him  to  the  shore,  the  shallow, 
sandy  shore,  where  it  formed  a  Imnber-room  between  the 
rocks  for  the  sea's  collection  of  all  things  it  could  not 
devour;  here  they  lay,  sorted,  washed  and  polished; 
broken  oars,  a  legion  of  corks,  bark,  reed-pipes,  staves 
and  hoops.     He  sat  down  and  stared  at  a  broken  plank. 

They  had  been  shut  up  in  the  house  for  a  week,  for  it 
was  raining.  He  had  established  himself  in  the  window- 
seat,  for  one  of  the  panes  was  all  colours  with  age  and 
sunlight,  and  when  he  looked  through  it  at  the  grey, 
cloud-covered  expanse  of  water,  the  sun  seemed  to  be  shin- 
ing; the  grey  reefs,  where  the  seagulls  nested,  looked  red, 
the  air  was  flooded  with  gold,  the  trees  were  of  a  brilliant 
emerald  green;  and  if  he  looked  through  the  window- 
pane  at  a  certain  angle  he  could  see  a  rainbow  in  the 
sky,  and  that  kindled  in  him  the  hope  of  fine  weather. 

Far  away,  out  in  the  sea,  there  was  a  small  island,  an 
island  which  looked  less  profaned  than  the  other  islands; 
the  Scotch  firs  grew  more  closely  together;  the  cliffs  were 
greener  and  the  shore  was  covered  with  reeds.  His  soul 
yearned  for  it,  for  from  there  he  could  see  the  open  sea. 

And  the  sun  shone  again.  He.  set  sail  and  steered  for 
the  little  island.  The  boat  danced  over  the  rolling  waves, 
the  channel  broadened;  far  away  the  green  island  called 
him;  it  swam  nearer  steadily,  until  at  last  the  boat  was 
moored  among  the  whispering  reeds  and  he  landed. 

His  dream  had  been  realised;  he  was  alone  among  the 
trees  and  reefs,  with  the  sea  before  him  and  the  infinite 
blue  sky  above  his  head.  No  sound  betrayed  the  dis- 
turbing vicinity  of  a  human  being,  no  sail  on  the  horizon, 
no  cottage  on  the  shore.  A  solitary  oyster-plover  flew 
away    from    him,   terrified,    uttering   its    impotent:    help! 


2S2  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

help!  A  family  of  creek-ducks,  led  by  the  mother, 
scudded  away,  running  on  the  water,  frightened  by  the 
arriral  of  dread  man;  a  grey  adder  uncurled  and  made 
good  its  escape,  slipping  away  between  the  stones,  like 
a  tiny,  winding  brooklet.  The  sea-gulls  came  flying  from 
the  reefs  to  have  a  look  at  the  intruder,  screamed  like 
little  children  and  hurried  away  again.  A  crow  rose  from 
a  large  Scotch  fir;  it  fluttered  and  beat  its  wings,  screamed 
and  threatened  and  groaned  and  escaped  to  outlying  reefs; 
every  living  thing  shunned  the  dreaded  being  who  had 
fled  from  his  own  kind. 

He  walked  along  the  sandy  shore;  he  came  upon  the 
skeleton  of  a  pine-tree,  washed  by  the  sea  and  bleached 
by  the  sim  to  a  deadly  pallor;  it  lay  there  like  a  skeleton 
of  a  dragon  and  between  its  ribs  flowered  the  purple 
lythrum  and  the  golden  lysimachia;  little  piles  of  shells 
lay  heaped  round  the  wild  aster  which  lived  its  life  on  empty 
sepulchres;  the  air  was  laden  with  the  scent  of  valerian 
which  grew  in  profusion  on  a  bed  of  evil-smelling  seaweed. 

He  left  the  shore  and  turned  his  footsteps  towards  the 
wood.  How  tall  and  straight  the  trees  were,  a  little  too 
straight  perhaps,  but  he  could  see  the  sea  through  the 
trunks,  the  sea — solitude — nature!  The  ground  was  as 
smooth  as  if  it  had  been  stamped  down  and  flattened  by 
human  feet;  here  was  the  stmnp  of  a  tree — the  axe  had 
been  here;  over  there  a  nettle  grew,  men  had  been  here; 
there  could  be  no  mistake,  for  the  nettle  is  a  parasite 
which  follows  in  the  wake  of  man  and  never  ventures  into 
the  solitude  of  the  woods  or  the  large  stretches  of  meadow- 
land;  the  nettle  is  vermin,  supported  by  man,  and  can 
only  exist  in  the  vicinity  of  man;  it  collects  all  dust  and 
dirt  on  its  hairy,  sticky  leaves  and  burns  the  finger  which 
touches  it, — a  magnificent  breed,  nourished  by  sin. 

He  went  on.  His  eyes  fell  on  a  sparrow,  the  denizen 
of  the  gutter  and  backyard — the  winged   creature  which 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  233 

feels  at  home  in  the  dust,  bathes  in  dirt  and  should  have 
been  a  rat  since  it  makes  no  use  of  its  wings — man's  jackal. 
What  was  it  doing  out  here  where  there  were  no  men? 
What  did  it  live  on?    On  the  seed  of  the  nettle? 

A  few  more  steps  and  he  foxmd  the  sole  of  a  shoe;  a 
large  foot,  a  foot  deformed  by  hard  work,  had  trodden 
heavily  on  this  sole.  Between  the  trunks  he  came  upon  a 
fire-place  made  of  boulders,  an  altar  perhaps,  on  which 
Nature's  conqueror  had  sacrificed  to  Strength,  The  fire 
had  long  been  extinct,  but  the  effects  of  it  were  still 
visible.  The  ground  was  dug  up  as  if  by  the  hoofs  of 
animals,  the  trees  were  stripped  of  their  bark,  even  the 
rocks  were  broken;  there  was  a  gigantic  well  in  the  moun- 
tain, filled  with  dirty  brown  water ;  the  bowels  of  the  earth 
had  been  laid  bare  and  the  broken  pieces  scattered  as  if 
by  naughty  children,  disappointed  because  they  had  not 
found  what  they  sought.  But  a  great  piece  of  mountain 
was  missing.  It  had  been  taken  away  with  a  feldspar 
to  the  china  factory,  and  only  when  there  was  no  more  to 
be  got,  man  had  stayed  away. 

He  fled  from  the  devastation,  down  to  his  boat.  He 
noticed  the  traces  of  footsteps  on  the  sand.  He  cursed 
and  turned  to  fly  when  he  suddenly  saw  in  a  flash  that  he 
had  been  cursing  himself;  and  all  at  once  he  imderstood 
why  the  seagulls  and  the  adder  and  all  the  others  had 
shunned  him,  and  he  retraced  his  footsteps,  for  he  could 
not  escape  from  himself. 

He  gazed  at  the  sea  through  his  field-glasses  in  the 
direction  whence  he  had  come.  A  white  dress  and  a  blue 
cover  shone  among  the  oak-trees.  He  climbed  into  the 
boat,  ate  his  bread,  drank  a  liqueur  and  muttered,  seizing 
the  oars — 

"  You,  whose  every  desire  has  been  fulfilled,  who 
possess  the  best  of  all  things  Life  has  to  bestow,  why  are 
you  discontent?  " 


XIII 

At  last  the  house  had  been  cleansed  of  her  friends. 
The  last  one,  the  pretty  one,  had  disappeared  in  the  com- 
pany of  a  well-known  professor,  who  had  returned  from 
an  expedition  with  four  orders  and  an  assured  position. 
Having  no  home  of  her  own,  the  fair  lady  had  lived  in  my 
house,  cost  free.  She  had  seized  the  opportunity,  fastened 
herself  on  to  the  .poor  fellow  and  seduced  him  one  evening 
in  a  cab,  where,  for  some  reason  or  other,  she  found  herself 
with  him;  she  forced  him  into  marrying  her  by  making  a 
scandalous  scene  in  a  third  house,  to  which  they  had  both 
been  invited.  As  soon  as  she  felt  sure  of  her  position 
she  dropped  the  mask,  and  at  a  party,  under  the  influence 
of  too  much  wine,  she  called  Marie  a  degenerate.  A 
colleague,  who  happened  to  hear  the  remark,  thought  it 
his  duty  to  tell  me  at  once. 

Marie,  with  a  few  words,  proved  that  the  accusation 
was  unjust,  and  in  future  my  door  was  closed  to  the  lady, 
although  this  meant  the  loss  of  my  old  friend  for  ever. 

I  was  not  sufficiently  curious  to  go  more  deeply  into 
the  meaning  of  the  word  "  degenerate,"  but  it  left  its 
sting  in  my  bleeding  flesh.  New  insults,  uttered  by  the 
same  impure  lips,  referred  to  the  suspicious  life  Marie 
had  led  during  her  tour  in  Finland.  My  old  suspicions 
arose  with  fresh  vigor,  her  miscarriage,  our  conversation 
an  destiny,  her  complete  surrender.  .  .  .  All  these 
things  strengthened  my  intention  to  leave  the  country. 

Marie  had  discovered  the  use  of  a  sick  poet,  and  con- 
stituted herself  sister  of  mercy,  sick-nurse,  keeper  even, 
if  a  keeper  was  required. 

234 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  235 

She  wove  a  martyr's  crown  for  her  own  head,  acted 
with  absolute  independence  behind  my  back,  and,  as  I 
discovered  later  on,  went  so  far  as  to  borrow  money  from 
my  friends  in  my  name.  At  the  same  time  valuable  pieces 
of  furniture  disappeared  from  our  house,  and  were  carted 
to  adventuress  No.  1,  to  be  sold  by  the  letter. 

All  this  aroused  my  attention, 

"Had  Marie  expenses  of  which  I  was  ignorant.''"  I 
often  asked  myself  this  question.  Was  this  the  cause  of 
those  secret  sales.''  The  cause  of  the  enormous  house- 
keeping expenditure.''  And  if  this  was  the  cause,  what 
was  the  object  of  them?  I  enjoyed  the  income  of  a 
Swedish  minister  of  State,  a  larger  income  than  that  of  a 
Swedish  general,  and  yet  I  led  a  miserable  life;  it  was  as 
if  my  feet  were  fettered,  as  if  I  were  dragging  a  leaden 
weight  with  me  wherever  I  went.  And  yet  we  lived  very 
simply.  Our  table  was  the  table  of  a  labourer;  the  food 
was  cooked  so  badly  that  it  was  at  times  uneatable.  We 
drank  beer  or  brandy,  like  a  working-man;  our  cellar 
was  so  inferior  that  our  friends  upbraided  us  more  than 
once.  I  smoked  nothing  but  a  pipe.  I  had  hardly  any 
recreation,  only  very  occasionally,  about  once  a  month, 
I  spent  an  evening  with  friends. 

Once  only,  beside  myself  with  anger,  I  determined  to 
look  into  the  matter.  I  asked  an  experienced  lady  for 
advice.  She  laughed  when  I  asked  her  whether  our  house- 
hold expenses  were  not  rather  high,  and  told  me  that  we 
must  be  mad. 

I  had  every  reason  therefore  to  believe  in  extraordinary 
and  secret  expenditure.    But  the  object?  the  object? 

Relations?  friends?  lovers?  Nobody  cares  to  enlighten 
a  husband,  and  so  everybody  becomes  an  accessory  in 
crime.  .  .  . 

After  endless   preparations   the   date   of   our  departure 


836  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

was  fixed.  But  now  a  new  difficulty  arose,  a  difficulty 
which  I  had  long  forseen  and  which  was  accompanied  by 
a  series  of  unpleasant  scenes.  The  dog  was  still  alive! 
How  much  annoyance  it  had  caused  me  already !  especially 
as  so  much  attention  was  devoted  to  him  that  the  children 
were  habitually  neglected. 

However,  the  day  had  dawned  when  to  my  inexpressible 
joy  Marie's  idol  and  my  evil  genius,  old,  diseased,  half- 
rotten,  was  to  end  its  days;  Marie  herself  now  desired  the 
animal's  death,  and  only  the  thought  of  the  innocent 
pleasure  which  its  disappearance  would  cause  me  led  her 
to  postpone  the  "  dog-question "  again  and  again,  and 
invent  fresh  annoyances  to  make  me  pay  for  the  longed-for 
relief. 

But  at  last  a  farewell  feast  was  arranged.  She  made 
heart-rending  scenes,  had  a  fowl  killed,  of  which  I,  still 
a  semi-invalid,  received  the  bones,  and  then — we  were  in 
the  country  at  the  time — she  went  to  town,  taking  the  dog 
with  her. 

After  two  days'  absence  she  announced  her  return  in 
a  few  cold  words.  What  else  could  a  murderer  expect? 
Full  bf  happiness,  freed  of  a  burden  which  I  had  borne 
for  six  years,  I  went  to  the  landing-stage  to  meet  her, 
expecting  to  find  her  alone.  She  received  me  as  if  I  were 
a  poisoner,  her  eyes  were  suffused  with  tears,  and  when  I 
approached  to  kiss  her,  she  pushed  me  aside.  Carrying 
in  her  arms  a  large  parcel  of  extraordinary  shape,  she 
walked  on,  slowly,  as  if  she  were  walking  in  a  funeral 
procession,  with  a  certain  rhythm  as  if  to  the  strains  of  a 
funeral  march. 

The  parcel  held  the  corpse!  The  funeral  ceremony  had 
been  reserved  for  me!  She  ordered  a  coffin  and  sent  for 
two  men  to  dig  a  grave.  Although  determined  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,  I  was  compelled  to  be  pre- 
sent at  the  obsequies  of  the  murdered  innocent.     It  was 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  237 

most  touching.  Marie  collected  her  thoughts  and  then 
prayed  to  God  for  the  victim  and  its  slayer.  Amid  the 
laughter  of  the  onlookers  she  placed  a  cross  on  the  grave, 
the  cross  of  the  Saviour  who  had — at  last — delivered  me 
from  a  monster,  innocent  itself,  but  yet  terrible  as  the 
embodiment  and  instrument  of  the  malice  of  a  woman 
who  lacked  the  courage  to  persecute  her  husband  openly. 
After  a  few  days'  mourning,  during  which  she  refused 
to  have  anything  to  say  to  me — for  she  could  have  nothing 
to  say  to  a  murderer — we  left  for  Paris. 


PART  IV 


The  main  destination  of  my  journey  was  Paris,  where 
I  hoped  to  meet  old  friends,  well  acquainted  with  my 
eccentricities;  congenial  spirits  who  understood  my  moods, 
knew  all  about  my  whims,  admired  my  courage,  and  were 
consequently  in  a  position  to  gauge  accurately  the  tem- 
porary state  of  my  mind.  In  addition  to  this  some  of  the 
foremost  of  the  Scandinavian  poets  had  just  taken  up  a 
permanent  abode  in  Paris;  I  meant  to  claim  their  protec- 
tion and  with  their  help  defy  Marie's  sinister  schemes;  for 
she  intended  to  have  me  shut  up  in  a  lunatic  asylum. 

During  the  whole  journey  she  continued  her  hostilities 
and  treated  me  as  a  person  altogether  beneath  contempt, 
whenever  we  were  without  witnesses.  She  was  always  lost 
in  thought,  absent-minded,  indifferent.  In  vain  I  took 
her  sight-seeing  in  the  towns  where  we  were  forced  to 
spend  the  nights;  she  took  no  interest  in  anything,  saw 
nothing,  hardly  listened  to  me.  My  attentions  bored  her; 
she  seemed  to  be  fretting  for  something.  But  for  what? 
For  the  country  where  she  had  suffered,  in  which  she  had 
not  left  one  single  friend,  but — a  lover,  perhaps? 

During  the  whole  time  she  behaved  like  the  most 
unpractical  and  ignorant  of  women;  she  displayed  none  of 
the  qualities  of  the  organiser  and  manager  of  which  she 
had  boasted  so  much.  She  insisted  on  staying  at  the  most 
expensive  hotels,  and  for  the  sake  of  one  night  she  often 
had  the  whole  furniture  rearranged;  a  badly  served  cup 

238 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  239 

of  tea  provoked  interviews  with  the  hotel  proprietor;  the 
noise  which  she  made  in  the  corridors  drew  unflattering 
comments  upon  us.  We  missed  the  best  trains  because 
she  would  lie  in  bed  until  dinner-time;  through  her  care- 
lessness our  luggage  went  astray;  and  when  we  left,  her 
tips  to  the  servants  were  of  the  meanest. 

"  You  are  a  coward !  "  she  said  in  reply  to  one  of  my 
remonstrances. 

"  And  you  are  ill-bred  and  slovenly !  " 

It  was  a  charming  pleasure-trip,  indeed. 

As  soon  as  we  had  arrived  in  Paris  and  settled  down 
among  my  friends,  who  were  proof  against  her  spells, 
she  found  that  I  had  got  the  better  of  her,  and  felt  like 
a  wild  animal  caught  in  a  trap.  She  watj  furious  because 
the  leading  Norwegian  poet  received  me  warmly,  and  over- 
whelmed me  with  kindness.  She  promptly  detested  him, 
for  she  sensed  in  him  a  friend  who  might  some  day  raise 
his  voice  in  my  favour. 

One  evening,  at  a  dinner  given  to  artists  and  writers, 
he  proposed  my  health,  calling  me  the  chief  representative 
of  modern  Swedish  literature.  Marie,  poor  martyr  by 
reason  of  her  marriage  with  the  "  notorious  pamphleteer," 
was  present.  The  applause  of  the  diners  depressed  her  to 
a  degree  which  excited  my  compassion,  and  when  the 
speaker  tried  to  make  me  promise  to  stay  for  at  least  two 
years  in  France,  I  could  no  longer  resist  the  wistful 
expression  of  her  eyes.  To  comfort  her,  to  give  her 
pleasure,  I  replied  that  I  never  took  an  important  decision 
without  consulting  with  my  wife.  My  reward  was  a 
grateful  look  and  the  sympathy  of  all  the  women  present. 

But  my  friend  remained  obdurate.  He  urged  me  to 
prolong  my  stay,  and  with  a  fine  flourish  of  oratory  asked 
all  those  present  to  support  his  proposition.  All  raised 
their  glasses  in  response. 


240  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

My  friend's  obstinacy  always  remained  inexplicable  to 
me,  although  I  quite  well  understood  at  the  time  that  a 
secret  struggle  was  being  fought  between  my  wife  and  him, 
the  motive  of  which  I  could  not  guess.  Maybe  he  was 
better  informed  than  I,  and  had  penetrated  my  secret 
with  the  clear-sightedness  which  frequently  accompanies 
first  impressions;  moreover,  he  was  himself  married  to  a 
woman  of  strange  morals. 

Marie  did  not  feel  at  home  in  Paris,  where  her  hus- 
band's genius  was  generally  acknowledged,  and  after  three 
months'  stay  she  hated  the  beautiful  city.  She  was 
indefatigable  in  warning  me  of  "  the  false  friends  who 
would  one  day  bring  me  misfortune." 

She  was  again  expecting  to  become  a  mother,  and  again 
life  with  her  was  unbearable.  But  this  time  I  had  no 
reason  to  doubt  the  paternity  of  the  expected  baby. 

Our  stay  in  Paris  came  to  an  end;  we  broke  up  our 
tents  and  slowly  made  our  way  to  Switzerland. 

Isn't  It  Enough? 

It  does  not  matter  very  much  that  the  wealthy  man  did 
not  ask  Jesus  what  he  should  do  in  order  to  solve  the 
problem  of  life,  for  Jesus  would  very  likely  have  replied 
in  the  same  way  in  which  He  replied  to  the  question 
relating  to  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven :  "  Go  and  sell  all 
thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor."  But  it  is  a  pity  that 
the  wealthy  man  did  not  carry  out  this  suggestion,  and 
above  all  things  that  he  did  not  live  to  see  a  scorching  day 
in  June  in  the  year  1885  in  the  humble  form  of  a  sixty- 
year-old  coster  who  pushed  a  heavy  barrow  down  the 
Avenue  de  Neuilly,  ceaselessly  calling  out  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  hunger  and  increasing  age — 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  Ml 

'  *  Cresson    de    f ontaine ! 
La  sant6  du  corps! 
Quatre  liards  la  botte! 
Quatre  liards  la  botte!  " 

He  went  down  on  the  left  side  of  the  avenue,  halting 
before  every  door;  but  everywhere  the  porters*  wives  shook 
their  heads,  for  the  younger  and  stronger  ones  had  stolen 
a  march  on  the  old  man,  and  had  already  supplied  the 
necessary  requirements  for  the  day.  He  reached  Porte 
Mailot  and  gazed  down  the  avenue  which  stretched  before 
him,  apparently  endlessly,  down  towards  the  Seine.  He 
took  off  his  black  cotton  cap  and  with  the  sleeve  of  his 
blue  blouse  wiped  the  perspiration  off  his  forehead.  Should 
he  turn  round  and  walk  up  on  the  right  side,  or  should  he 
go  to  Paris  to  try  his  luck  there?  the  wonderful  luck  to 
earn  the  few  pence  by  virtue  of  which  he  could  keep  up 
sufficient  strength  to  push  his  barrow  along  when  to- 
morrow had  dawned?  Should  he  invest  his  last  shilling 
in  the  payment  of  the  toll  and  go  on  to  meet  the  unknovsm 
fate  awaiting  him?  He  took  the  risk,  paid  the  octroi  and 
trudged  along  the  Avenue  de  la  Grande  Armee. 

The  sun  had  risen  higher  in  the  sky,  and  the  pavements 
were  still  warm  from  the  previous  day;  the  gay  townl 
smelled  like  the  close,  fetid  atmosphere  of  the  bedroom, 
which  streamed  through  the  open  windows  and  hung 
heavily  in  the  still  air.  The  sunbeams  heated  the  dust 
which  rose  in  clouds  from  the  carpets  beaten  against  the 
doorsteps;  showy  advertisements  flashed  from  privies  and 
news-stalls,  and  a  suffocating  smell  of  ammonia  penetrated 
through  the  half-open  doors;  cigar  ends,  tobacco,  manure, 
orange  skins,  celery  stalks,  pieces  of  paper  from  forgotten 
refuse  heaps  were  carried  away  by  the  rushing  stream 
which  gushed  from  the  main  and  swept  everything  towards 
the  gratings  of  the  gutter. 

The  old  man  cried  his  wares,  but  carts  and  omnibuses 


«4«  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

drowned  his  voice,  and  no  one  bought.  Tired,  forsaken 
by  every  one,  he  sat  down  on  a  seat  under  the  plane  trees. 
But  the  sunbeams  found  him  out,  and  scorched  him  in 
spite  of  the  dusty  leaves.  How  dismal  the  sun  appeared 
to  the  worn-out  traveller,  who  longed  for  an  overcast  sky 
and  a  downpour  to  relieve  the  unbearable  heat,  which 
robbed  his  nerves  of  their  strength  and  shrivelled  up  his 
muscles. 

Yet  the  torture  of  the  excessive  heat  did  not  make  him 
insensible  to  the  torture  of  hunger  and  the  dread  of  the 
morrow.  He  rose,  seized  the  shafts  of  his  barrow,  and 
toiled  up  the  steep  incline  which  leads  to  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe,  shouting  incessantly — 

"Quatre  liards  la  botte!  " 

At  the  last  street  corner  a  little  dressmaker  bought  two 
bunches. 

He  dragged  himself  through  the  Champs  Elysees,  and 
met  the  wealthy  man,  seated  in  his  carriage  behind  his 
English  coachman,  on  his  way  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
there  to  brood  over  the  problem  of  life.  The  palaces  and 
large  restaurants  bought  nothing;  the  fierce  rays  of  the 
sun  dried  up  the  water-cress,  and  the  long  green  leaves  of 
his  cauliflowers  hung  limp,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to 
sprinkle  them  with  water  at  the  fountain  near  the  Rond- 
Point. 

It  was  noon  when  he  passed  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
and  arrived  at  the  Quays.  Before  the  restaurants  men 
were  sitting  and  lunching;  some  of  them  had  already 
arrived  at  the  coffee.  They  looked  well-fed,  but  bored, 
as  if  they  were  fulfilling  a  melancholy  and  painful  duty 
by  keeping  alive.  But  to  the  old  man  they  were  happy 
mortals  who  had  staved  off  death  for  a  few  hours,  while 
he  felt  his  soul  shrinking  like  a  dried  apple. 

The  barrow  rattled  past  the  Pont-Neuf,  and  every  stone 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  243 

against  which  the  wheels  pushed  shook  the  muscles  and 
nerves  of  his  tired  arms.  He  had  not  broken  his  fast  since 
the  early  morning;  his  voice  sounded  thin  like  the  voice 
of  a  consumptive,  so  that  his  cries  were  more  like  cries 
for  help  now,  with  little  preliminary  sighs  caused  by  want 
of  breath. 

His  feet  were  burning  and  his  hands  trembled;  he  felt 
as  if  the  marrow  in  his  spine  were  melting  with  the 
heat,  and  the  thin  blood  hammered  in  his  temples  as  he 
turned  towards  the  city,  seeking  the  shade  of  the  Quai  de 
I'Horloge.  He  halted  for  a  moment  before  a  wine-shop 
in  the  Place  de  Parvis,  half  inclined  to  spend  his 
few  pennies  on  a  glass  of  wine.  But  he  pulled  himself 
together  and  trudged  on,  past  Notre-Dame,  towards  the 
,  Morgue. 

He  could  not  drag  himself  away  from  this  mysterious 
little  house,  where  so  many  problems  of  life  have  been 
solved,  and  he  entered.  How  cool  and  beautiful  it  was 
inside,  where  the  dead  lay  on  marble  slabs,  the  hoar-frost 
on  their  hair  and  beards  sparkling  as  on  a  beautiful,  bright 
winter  day.  Some  of  them  looked  distressed,  because  the 
rush  of  the  water  into  their  lungs,  or  the  stab  of  the  knife 
into  the  heart,  had  given  them  pain ;  one  of  them  smiled 
as  if  he  were  glad  that  all  was  over;  one  lay  there  with 
an  expression  of  indifference  on  his  face,  as  if  nothing 
mattered;  the  problem  was  solved,  at  any  rate:  he  had 
lived  until  he  died.  No  more  clothes  required,  no  more 
food,  no  shelter!  No  sorrow,  no  cares.  All  held  in  their 
grasp  the  greatest  boon  life  has  to  bestow:  a  calm  which 
neither  want,  failure  of  crops,  sickness,  death,  war  or 
famine,  American  wheat  or  the  hard  laws  which  regulate 
wages,  could  disturb.  Sleep  without  dreams,  how  gentle 
a  sleep !     And  without  an  awakening,  how  splendid ! 

The  old  man  must  have  envied  the  sleepers,  for  he 
turned  his  head  on  leaving,  to  feast  his  eyes  once  more 


244  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

on  the  sight  of  those  blessed  ones,  who  slept  in  cool 
seclusion  behind  the  large  glass  panes. 

He  plodded  on  to  the  other  side  of  the  church  and 
stopped  at  the  principal  entrance.  He  asked  the  dealer  in 
relics  to  keep  an  eye  on  his  barrow,  and  entered.  He 
stirred  the  holy  water  with  his  right  hand  and  cooled  lips 
and  brow.  Inside  the  church  it  was  cool,  for  the  sunbeams 
were  powerless  to  penetrate  the  stained-glass  windows. 
The  pulpit  was  occupied  by  a  little  abbe,  freshly  shaved, 
with  traces  of  powder  still  visible  on  his  bluish  skin;  he 
was  speaking,  and  the  old  man  listened. 

"  'Consider  the  lilies  in  the  field/ "  said  the  abbe, 
"  '  how  they  grow ;  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin, 
and  yet  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  any 
one  of  these!  Consider  the  ravens:  for  they  neither  sow 
nor  reap;  which  neither  have  store-houses  nor  bam;  and 
God  feedeth  them:  how  much  more  are  ye  better  than 
the  fowls ! '  " 

"  How  much  more  are  we  better  than  the  fowls !  "  sighed 
the  old  man. 

"  But  rather  seek  ye  the  Kingdom  of  God,"  concluded 
the  abbe,  "  and  all  else  will  be  added  to  you." 

"AH  else,"  sighed  the  old  man,  "all  else!  First  the 
Kingdom  of  God,  and  then  all  else." 

Leaning  against  a  pillar  in  the  side  aisle,  the  wealthy 
man,  holding  a  Baedeker  in  his  hand,  tried  to  solve  the 
problem  of  the  essence  and  origin  of  life  by  means  of  a 
careful  study  of  the  architecture  of  the  past.  He  did  not 
believe  in  the  Kingdom  of  God,  but  he  brooded  over  the 
purpose  of  life,  and  could  not  understand  why  a  man 
should  go  to  so  much  trouble  to  kill  time  until  he  was 
seventy  or  at  the  most  eighty  years  old.  Had  it  not  been 
against  all  conventions,  he  would  have  gone  to  the  old 
man  and  said  to  him  who  had  already  passed  his  allotted 
time — 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  245 

"  Give  me  your  solution  of  the  problem  of  life !  " 

And  the  old  man,  unless  he  had  been  too  exhausted  with 
hunger  and  thirst,  would  have  answered — 

"  The  problem  of  life,  as  I  understood  it,  is  the  main- 
tenance of  one's  own  life." 

"  Is  that  all?  "  the  wealthy  man  would  have  answered, 
astonished. 

"  All }     Isn't  it  enough  ?     All .?  " 

"  We  do  not  understand  one  another." 

"  No,  we  do  not  understand  one  another;  we  have  never 
understood  one  another." 

"  Because  you  are  a  selfish  old  man,  who  hasi  lived  but 
for  himself.     But  humanity.  ..." 

"  Sir,  I  too  have  lived  for  humanity,  for  I  have  brought 
up  and  educated  four  children,  a  problem  which  was 
more  difficult  perhaps  to  solve  than  yours,  the  solu- 
tion of  which  you  can  buy  at  any  bookseller's.  Yes, 
go,  sell  all  you  have  and  give  it  to  the  i>oor,  then 
you  will  see  whether  there  is  room  in  life  for  anything 
else !  " 

But  the  wealthy  man  preferred  to  leave  the  problem 
unsolved  and  keep  his  gold;  therefore  he  continued  to 
study  his  Baedeker,  and  did  not  ask  the  poor  coster  for 
his  opinion. 

The  old  man,  with  faith  unshaken,  left  the  church,  the 
abbe's  comforting  words  ringing  in  his  ears :  "  Take  no 
heed  of  to-morrow,"  and  crossed  to  the  left  shore  of  the 
river. 

At  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel  he  was  for- 
tunate enough  to  sell  six  centimes'  worth  of  his  stuff  at  a 
reduced  price.  And  on  he  trudged  and  turned  into  the 
Rue  Bonaparte. 

It  was  afternoon,  that  saddest  time  of  the  day  when  the 
sun  is  setting,  but  darkness  has  not  yet  fallen,  darkness 
which  brings  in  its  train  peace  for  the  weary  souls  who 


246  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

long  to  rest  and  play  for  a  while  before  they  are  compelled 
to  face  torturing  dreams  and  memories. 

He  sat  down  on  a  stone  step  and  counted  his  money: 
eighty  centimes;  that  was  twenty  centimes  less  than  the 
franc  which  he  had  spent  at  the  gate.  How  could  he  pay 
six  francs  to  the  nursery  gardener?  How  could  he  buy 
food  and  drink^  how  return  before  nightfall  to  Suresnes? 
He  saw  in  imagination  the  endless  Champs  Elysees^  the 
long  Avenue  de  la  Grande  Armee,  the  terrible  Avenue 
Neuilly.     No,  it  was  too  far  to  go  back,  too  far. 

He  looked  about  searchingly,  and  his  dim  eyes  were 
dazzled  by  the  gleam  of  the  blue  and  red  glass  bottles  in 
the  chemist's  shop  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  which 
sparkled  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  They  stood  on 
long  shelves,  filled  with  bottles  and  boxes;  patent  medi- 
cines for  indigestion;  appetite  restoratives;  powders  to 
calm  feverish  brains  which  had  brooded  too  long  over  the 
riddle  of  life;  means  of  protection  from  over-population  or 
increasing  poverty;  headache  j>encils  for  those  who  tried 
to  solve  social  problems ;  rouge  for  night-birds,  tabloids 
for  nervous  ailments  and  financially  independent  people. 
All  these  things  could  be  bought  there. 

The  old  man  rose  hastily,  as  if  a  buyer  had  beckoned  to 
him,  and  entered  the  chemist's  shop. 

"  Six  centimes'  worth  of  laudanum,  please,"  he  said. 
"  My  wife  is  suffering  from  convulsions." 

And  as  if  to  prove  his  words,  he  lifted  his  right  hand 
to  show  the  ring  on  his  third  finger.  But  there  was  only 
a  white  line  and  a  groove  in  the  brown  skin. 

But  the  chemist,  who,  perhaps,  had  also  been  waiting 
for  a  buyer,  took  no  notice  of  his  gesture ;  he  filled  a  small 
bottle  with  the  required  liquid,  licked  a  label,  bit  a  cork, 
took  the  money,  and  resumed  the  study  of  his  pharma- 
copoeia.    What  business  was  it  of  his? 

The  old  man,  the  bottle  in   his   pocket,   staggered  out 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  247 

of  the  shop,  once  again  seized  the  shafts,  and  wandered 
up  the  street.  He  stopped  at  a  bookseller's,  and  as  if  to 
make  one  more  bid  for  good  fortune,  he  called  out  for  the 
last  time — 

"Quatre  liards   la  botte! 
Quatre  liards  la  botte!" 

Afraid  that  somebody  might  beckon  to  him  in  reply, 
he  put  the  bottle  to  his  lips  and  greedily  drank  the  dark- 
red  liquid,  as  if  to  quench  a  burning  thirst.  The  pupils 
of  his  eyes  contracted  as  if  he  were  staring  into  the  sun; 
a  vivid  scarlet  flame  shot  across  his  cheeks,  his  knees 
bent,  and  he  fell  on  the  edge  of  the  gutter.  He  snored 
loudly  like  a  man  in  a  sovmd  sleep;  the  perspiration  stood 
in  large  drops  on  his  face,  and  there  was  a  quivering 
movement  of  his  legs. 

By  the  time  the  police  had  arrived  he  lay  quite  still, 
but  the  expression  of  his  face  plainly  betrayed  his  last 
conscious  thoughts — 

"Life  was  sometimes  good,  evil  every  now  and  then, 
but  the  best  thing  came  last.  I  solved  the  problem  as  well 
as  I  could,  and  it  was  not  easy,  although  the  rich  man 
found  that  it  was  not  enough.  But  we  did  not  understand 
one  another.  It  is  a  pity  that  men  are  not  meant  to 
understand  one  another." 


II 

Arrived  in  Switzerland,  we  took  rooms  in  a  private 
hotel,  so  as  to  avoid  all  quarrels  on  the  subject  of  house- 
keeping. 

Marie  made  up  for  lost  time,  for  being  alone  now,  and 
unbacked  by  sympathising  friends,  I  was  again  in  her 
power.  From  the  very  beginning  she  posed  as  the  keeper 
of  a  harmless  lunatic.  She  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
doctor,  informed  proprietor  and  proprietress,  the  wait- 
resses, the  servants,  the  other  guests.  I  was  shut  off  from 
association  with  intelligent  people  of  my  own  kindred  who 
understood  me.  At  meals  she  revenged  herself  for  the 
silence  to  which  she  had  been  condemned  in  Paris.  She 
missed  no  opportunity  of  joining  in  the  conversation,  and 
literally  inundated  us  with  a  never-ending  stream  of 
foolish  twaddle  which,  she  knew,  irritated  me  horribly. 
And  since  the  uncultured,  commonplace  crowd  among 
whom  we  lived  always  very  politely  agreed  with  her, 
there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  to  keep  silence;  they 
regarded  my  silence  as  a  proof  of  my  inferiority. 

She  looked  ill  and  fragile,  and  appeared  to  be  suffering 
from  a  great  grief;  she  treated  me  with  dislike  and 
contempt. 

All  I  loved,  she  detested:  she  was  disappointed  with  the 
Alps  because  I  admired  them;  she  scorned  the  beautiful 
walks;  she  avoided  being  alone  with  me;  she  made  a 
practice  of  anticipating  my  wishes  so  as  to  thwart  them; 
she  said  Yes  whenever  I  said  No,  and  vice  versa;  there 
was  no  doubt  that  she  hated  me. 

Alone  and  solitary  in  a  strange  country,  I  was  compelled 

248 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  249 

to  seek  her  society;  but  since  we  never  talked  for  fear 
of  quarrelling^  I  had  to  be  content  with  merely  seeing  her, 
at  my  side,  with  feeling  that  I  was  not  quite  isolated. 

My  illness  became  worse;  I  was  so  ill  that  I  could  take 
nothing  but  beef  tea;  I  lay  awake  at  night,  suffering 
agonies,  tortured  by  an  unbearable  thirst  which  I  tried  to 
relieye  by  drinking  cold  milk. 

My  brain,  keen  and  refined  by  study  and  culture,  was 
thrown  into  confusion  by  contact  with  a  coarser  brain; 
every  attempt  to  bring  it  into  harmony  with  my  wife's 
caused  me  to  have  convulsions.  I  tried  to  get  into  touch 
with  strangers.  But  they  treated  me  with  the  forbearance 
which  a  sane  person  usually  shows  to  a  lunatic. 

For  three  months  I  hardly  opened  my  lips.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  I  noticed  with  horror  that  I  had  almost  lost 
my  voice,  and,  from  sheer  want  of  practice,  had  no  longer 
any  control  of  the  spoken  word. 

Determined  not  to  be  defeated  in  the  struggle,  I  began 
a  brisk  correspondence  with  my  friends  in  Sweden.  But 
their  guarded  language,  their  deep  sympathy,  their  well- 
meant  advice,  plainly  betrayed  the  opinion  which  they  had 
formed  of  my  mental  condition. 

She  triumphed.  I  was  on  the  verge  of  insanity, 
and  the  first  symptoms  of  persecutional  mania  showed 
themselves.  Mania?  Did  I  say  mania?  I  was  being  per- 
secuted, there  was  nothing  irrational  in  the  thought. 

It  was  just  as  if  I  had  become  a  child  again.  Extremely 
feeble,  I  lay  for  hours  on  the  sofa,  my  head  on  her  knees, 
my  arms  round  her  waist,  like  Michel  Angelo's  Pieta.  I 
buried  my  face  in  her  lap,  and  she  called  me  her  child. 
"  Your  child,  yes,"  I  stammered.  I  forgot  my  sex  in  the 
arms  of  the  mother,  who  was  no  longer  female,  but  sexless. 
Now  she  regarded  me  with  the  eyes  of  the  conqueror,  now 
she  looked  at  me  kindly,  seized  with  the  sudden  tenderness 
which  the  hangman  is  said  to  feel  sometimes  for  his  victim. 


250  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

She  was  like  the  female  spider  which  devours  her  mate 
immediately  after  the  hymeneal  embrace. 

While  I  suffered  thus,  Marie  led  a  mysterious  life.  She 
always  reniained  in  bed  till  the  one  o'clock  dinner.  After 
dinner  she  went  to  town,  frequently  without  any  definite 
purpose,  and  did  not  return  until  supper,  sometimes  even 
later.    When  I  was  asked  where  she  had  gone,  I  replied — 

"  To  town !  " 

And  the  inquirer  smiled  furtively. 

I  never  suspected  her.  I  never  thought  of  playing  the 
spy.  After  supper  she  remained  in  the  drawing-room, 
talking  to  strangers. 

At  night  she  often  treated  the  servants  to  liqueurs;  I 
heard  their  whispering  voices,  but  I  never  stooped  so  low 
as  to  listen  at  her  door.    .     .    . 

What  was  it  that  held  me  back.''  I  don't  know.  Only 
an  instinct,  I  suppose,  which  teaches  us  that  those  actions 
are  unmanly  and  dishonourable.  Moreover,  it  had  become 
a  sort  of  religion  with  me  to  leave  her  an  absolutely  free 
hand.  • 

Three  months  passed.  Then  the  fact  suddenly  struck 
me  that  our  expenditure  was  enormous.  Now  that  our 
expenses  were  regulated,  it  was  easy  to  check  them. 

We  paid  twelve  francs  a  day  at  our  hotel,  that  is  three 
hundred  and  sixty  francs  a  month,  and  I  had  given  Marie 
a  thousand  francs  a  month.  She  had  therefore  spent  six 
hundred  francs  a  month  in  incidental  expenses. 

I  asked  her  to  account  for  her  extravagance. 

"  The  money  has  been  spent  on  incidental  items !  "  she 
exclaimed  furiously. 

"  What !  with  an  ordinary  expenditure  of  three 
hundred  and  sixty  francs,  you  spent  six  hundred  francs 
incidentally?     Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool?  " 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  251 

"  I  don't  deny  that  you  have  given  me  a  thousand 
francs,  but  you  have  spent  the  greater  part  on  yourself !  " 

"Have  I?  Let's  see!  Tobacco  (very  inferior  quality), 
and  cigars  at  one  penny  each:  ten  francs;  postage:  ten 
francs ;  what  else  ?  " 

"  Your   fencing  lessons !  " 

"  I've  only  had  one:  three  francs!  " 

"  Riding  lessons !  " 

"  Two :  five  francs." 

"  Books !  " 

"  Books  ?  Ten  francs — ^together  thirty  francs ;  let  us 
say  one  hundred  francs;  that  leaves  five  hundred  francs 
for  incidental  expenses.     .     .     .     Preposterous ! " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  I'm  robbing  you?     You  cad!  " 

What  could  I  say  ?     Nothing  at  all !  .   .   . 

I  was  a  cad,  and  on  the  following  day  all  her  friends  in 
Sweden  were  informed  of  the  progress  of  my  insanity. 

And  gradually  the  myth  grew  and  developed.  The 
salient  characteristics  of  my  personality  became  more  and 
more  unmistakable  as  time  went  on,  and  instead  of  the 
harmless  poet,  a  mythological  figure  was  sketched,  black- 
ened, touched  up  until  it  closely  resembled  a  criminal. 

I  made  an  attempt  to  escape  to  Italy,  where  I  felt  sure 
of  meeting  artists  and  men  after  my  own  heart.  The 
attempt  was  a  failure.  We  returned  to  the  shores  of  the 
Lake  of  Geneva,  there  to  await  Marie's  confinement. 

When  the  child  was  a  few  days  old,  Marie,  the  martyr, 
the  oppressed  wife,  the  slave  without  rights,  implored  me 
to  have  it  baptised.  She  knew  very  well  that  in  mv" 
controversial  writings  I  had  fought  Christianity  tooth  and 
nail,  and  was  therefore  strongly  opposed  to  the  ritual  of 
the  church. 

Although  she  was  not  in  the  least  religious  herself,  and 
had  not  set  a  foot  inside  a  church  for  the  last  ten  years, 
or    been    to    communion    for    goodness    knows    how   long; 


262  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

although  she  had  only  prayed  for  dogs,  fowls  and  rabbits, 
the  thought  of  this  baptism,  which  she  meant  to  elaborate 
into  a  great  festival,  completely  obsessed  her.  I  had  no 
doubt  that  the  motive  which  actuated  her  was  the  thought 
of  my  dislike  to  ceremonies  which  I  considered  insincere, 
and  which  are  opposed  to  all  my  convictions. 

But  she  implored  me  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  appealed  to 
my  kind  and  generous  nature.  In  the  end  I  yielded  to 
her  importunity,  on  condition,  however,  that  I  was  not 
expected  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony.  She  kissed  my 
hand,  thanked  me  effusively  for  what  she  called  a  mark  of 
my  affection  for  her,  and  assured  me  that  her  baby's 
baptism  was  a  matter  of  conscience  to  her,  a  very  vital 
point. 

The  ceremony  took  place.  After  her  return  from 
church,  she  ridiculed  the  "  farce  "  in  the  presence  of  many 
witnesses,  posed  as  a  free-thinker,  made  fun  of  the  cere- 
monial, and  even  boasted  that  she  knew  nothing  whatever 
of  the  church  into  which  her  son  had  just  been 
received. 

She  had  won  the  game  and  could  afford  to  laugh  at  the 
whole  business;  the  "vital  question"  transformed  itself 
into  a  victory  over  me,  a  victory  which  served  to 
strengthen  the  hands  of  my  adversaries. 

Once  again  I  had  humiliated  myself,  laid  myself  open 
to  attack,  in  order  to  humour  the  fads  and  fancies  of  an 
overbearing  woman. 

But  my  measure  of  calamities  was  not  yet  full.  A 
Scandinavian  lady  appeared  on  the  scene,  full  of  the 
mania  called  the  "  Emancipation  of  Woman."  She  and 
Marie  became  friends  at  once,  and  between  them  I  had 
no  chance. 

She  brought  vnih  her  the  cowardly  book  of  a  sexless 
writer  who,  rejected  by  all  parties,  became  a  traitor 
to    his    own    sex    by    embracing    the    cause    of    all    the 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  253 

blue-stockings  of  the  civilised  world.  After  having 
read  Man  and  Woman,  by  Emile  Girardin,  I  could 
vrell  understand  that  this  movement  was  bound  to 
result  in  great  advantages  to  the  hostile  camp  of  the 
women. 

To  depose  man  and  put  woman  in  his  place  by  the 
re-introduction  of  the  matriarchate ;  to  dethrone  the  true 
lord  of  creation  who  evolved  civilisation,  spread  the 
benefits  of  culture,  created  all  great  ideals,  art,  the 
professions,  all  that  there  is  great  and  beautiful  in  the 
world,  and  crown  woman  who,  with  few  exceptions,  has 
not  shared  in  the  great  work  of  civilisation,  constituted 
to  me  a,  challenge  to  my  sex.  The  very  thought  of  having 
to  witness  the  apotheosis  of  those  intelligences  of  the  iron 
age,  those  manlike  creatures,  those  semi-apes,  that  pack 
of  dangerous  animals,  roused  my  manhood.  It  was 
strange,  but  I  was  cured  of  my  illness,  cured  through  my 
intense  repugnance  to  an  enemy  who,  though  intellectually 
my  inferior,  was  more  than  a  match  for  me  on  account  of 
her  complete  lack  of  moral  feeling. 

In  a  tribal  war  the  less  honest,  the  more  crafty,  tribe 
generally  remains  in  possession  of  the  battlefield.  The 
more  a  man  respects  woman,  the  more  leisure  he  leaves  her 
to  arm  and  prepare  herself  for  the  fight,  the  smaller  are 
his  prospects  of  winning  the  battle.  I  determined  to  take 
the  matter  seriously.  I  armed  myself  for  this  new  duel 
and  wrote  a  book  which  I  flung,  like  a  gauntlet,  at  the 
feet  of  the  emancipated  women,  those  fools  who  demanded 
freedom  at  the  price  of  man's  bondage. 

In  the  following  spring  we  changed  our  hotel.  Our 
new  abode  was  a  kind  of  purgatory  where  I  was  con- 
tinually watched  by  twenty-five  women  who,  incidentally, 
furnished  me  with  copy  for  my  book. 

In  three  months'  time  the  volume  was  ready  for  publica- 
tion.    It  was  a  collection  of  stories  of  matrimonial  life 


«54  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

with  an  introduction  in  which  I  voiced  a  great  number  of 
disagreeable  home-truths. 

"  Woman,"  I  contended,  "  is  not  a  slave,  for  she  and 
her  children  are  supported  by  her  husband's  work.  She 
is  not  oppressed,  for  nature  has  ordained  that  she  should 
live  under  the  protection  of  the  man  while  she  fulfills  her 
mission  in  life  as  mother.  Woman  is  not  man's  intel- 
lectual equal;  the  man,  on  the  other  hand,  cannot  bear 
children.  She  is  not  an  essential  factor  in  the  great  work 
of  civilisation;  this  is  man's  domain,  for  he  is  better  fitted 
to  grapple  with  spiritual  jDroblems  than  she  is.  Evolution 
teaches  us  that  the  greater  the  difference  between  the 
sexes,  the  stronger  and  more  fit  will  be  the  resulting 
offspring.  Consequently  the  aping  of  the  masculine,  the 
equality  of  the  sexes,  means  retrogression,  and  is  utter 
folly,  the  last  dream  of  romantic  and  idealistic  socialism. 

"  Woman,  man's  necessary  complement,  the  spiritual 
creation  of  man,  has  no  right  to  the  privileges  of  her 
husband,  for  she  can  only  be  called  '  the  other  half  of 
humanity  '  by  virtue  of  her  numbers,  proportionally  she 
is  merely  the  sixth  part  of  a  sixth.  She  should  not,  there- 
fore, invade  the  labour  market  as  long  as  it  falls  to  the 
lot  of  the  man  to  provide  for  his  wife  and  family.  And 
the  fact  should  not  be  lost  sight  of  that  every  time  a 
woman  wrests  an  appointment  from  a  man,  there  is  one 
more  old  maid  or  prostitute." 

The  fury  of  the  feminists,  and  the  formidable  party 
which  they  formed,  may  easUy  be  imagined  when  one 
realises  that  they  demanded  the  confiscation  of  my  book 
and  brought  a  lawsuit  against  me. 

But  despite  their  attempt  to  represent  my  attack  as  an 
offence  against  religion  (the  folly  of  the  unsexed  actually 
aspired  to  raise  their  cause  to  the  dignity  of  a  religion), 
they  were  not  clever  enough  to  win  their  case. 

Marie  obstinately  opposed  my  intention  to  go  to  Sweden 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  255 

unaccompanied  by  her;  to  take  my  family  with  me  was  out 
of  the  question  on  account  of  my  limited  means.  Secretly 
she  was  afraid  that  I  might  escape  from  her  strict 
guardianship  and,  worse  still,  that  my  appearance  in  court, 
before  the  public,  would  give  the  lie  to  the  rumours  con- 
cerning my  mental  condition  which  she  had  so  sedulously 
disseminated. 

She  pleaded  illness,  without,  however,  being  able  to 
make  a  definite  statement  as  to  the  nature  of  her  illness, 
and  kept  her  bed.  Nevertheless  I  decided  to  appear 
personally  in  court,  and  left  for  Sweden. 

The  letters  which  I  wrote  to  her  during  the  following 
six  weeks,  while  I  was  threatened  with  two  years'  penal 
servitude,  were  full  of  love,  love  rekindled  by  our  separa- 
tion. My  overwrought  brain  cast  a  glamour  over  her 
fragile  form,  wove  a  resplendent  halo  round  her  sweet 
face;  restraint  and  longing  clothed  her  with  the  white 
garments  of  the  guardian  angel.  Everything  that  was 
base,  ugly,  evil,  disappeared;  the  madonna  of  my  first 
love-dream  reappeared.  I  went  so  far  as  to  admit  to  an 
old  friend,  a  journalist,  "  that  the  influence  of  a  good 
woman  had  made  me  more  humble  and  pure-minded." 
Probably  this  confession  made  the  round  of  the  papers 
of  the  United  Kingdoms. 

Did  the  unfaithful  wife  laugh  when  she  read  it? 

The  public  got  its  money's  worth,  at  any  rate. 

Marie's  replies  to  my  love-letters  bore  witness  to  the 
keen  interest  which  she  took  in  the  financial  side  of  the 
question.  But  her  opinion  underwent  a  change  in  the 
same  proportion  in  which  the  ovations  I  received  in  the 
theatre,  in  the  street  and  in  court  increased,  and  she  called 
the  judges  stupid,  and  regretted  that  she  was  not  a 
member  of  the  jury. 

She  met  my  ardent  declarations  of  love  with  clever 
reserve;  she  refused  to  be  drawn  into  an  argument,  and 


«66  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

confined  herself  to  the  repetition  of  the  words :  "  To 
understand  one  another,"  "  To  comprehend  each  other's 
nature  and  ideas."  She  blamed  my  failure  to  vmderstand 
her  for  the  unhappiness  of  our  marriage.  But  I  could 
swear  that  she  herself  never  understood  a  single  word  of 
the  language  of  her  learned  poet. 

Amongst  the  number  of  her  letters  there  was  one  which 
reawakened  my  old  suspicions.  I  had  mentioned  my 
intention  to  live  permanently  abroad,  if  I  was  fortunate 
enough  to  escape  the  meshes  of  the  law. 

This  upset  her;  she  scolded  me,  threatened  me  with 
the  loss  of  her  love;  she  appealed  to  my  pity,  went  down 
on  her  knees  before  me,  as  it  were,  evoked  the  memory  of 
my  mother,  and  confessed  that  the  thought  of  never  again 
seeing  her  country  (by  which  she  did  not  mean  Finland) 
sent  cold  shudders  down  her  spine  and  would  kill  her. 

Why  cold  shudders?     I  wondered.     .     .     . 

To  this  day  I  have  not  found  an  explanation. 

I  was  acquitted.  A  banquet  was  given  in  my  honour, 
and — oh,  irony  of  fate! — Marie's  health  was  drunk 
"  because  she  had  persuaded  me  to  appear  personally 
before  my  judges." 

It  was  indeed  amusing! 

As  soon  as  possible  I  returned  to  Geneva,  where  my 
family  had  lived  during  my  absence.  To  my  great 
surprise  Marie,  whom  I  had  believed  to  be  ill  and  in  bed, 
met  me  at  the  station;  she  looked  well  and  happy,  but  a 
trifle  absent-minded. 

I  soon  recovered  my  spirits,  and  the  evening  and  night 
which  followed  fully  compensated  me  for  all  the  sufferings 
T  had  endured  during  those  six  weeks. 

On  the  following  day  I  discovered  that  we  were  living 
in  a  boarding-house  which  was  mainly  patronised  by 
students  and  light  women.  While  listening  to  their 
chatter^  it  came  home  to  me  with  a  pang  that  Marie  had 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  257 

found  pleasure  in  drinking  and  playing  cards  with  these 
shady  characters.  The  familiar  tone  which  prevailed 
revolted  me.  Marie  posed  to  the  students  as  the  little 
mother  (her  old  game)  ;  she  was  the  bosom  friend  of  the 
most  objectionable  of  the  women;  she  introduced  her  to 
me:  a  slut^  who  came  down  to  dinner  semi-intoxicated. 

And  in  this  hell  my  children  had  lived  for  six  weeks ! 
Their  mother  approved  of  the  place,  for  she  was  without 
prejudices!  And  her  illness — her  simulated  illness — had 
not  prevented  her  from  taking  part  in  the  amusements  of 
this  disreputable  company. 

She  lightly  dismissed  all  my  remonstrances.  I  was 
jealous,  a  stickler,  a  snob.    .    .    . 

And  again  it  was  war  between  us. 

We  were  now  confronted  by  a  new  difficulty:  the  ques- 
tion of  the  education  of  the  children.  The  nurse,  an  unedu- 
cated country  girl,  was  made  their  governess,  and,  in 
collusion  with  the  mother,  committed  the  most  outrageous 
follies.  Both  women  were  indolent,  and  liked  to  stay  in 
bed  until  broad  daylight.  Consequently  the  children  were 
obliged  to  stay  in  bed  also,  during  the  morning,  no  matter 
how  wide  awake  they  were;  if  they  insisted  on  getting  up, 
they  were  punished.  As  soon  as  I  became  aware  of  this 
state  of  things,  I  interfered;  without  much  ado  I  sounded 
the  reveille  in  the  nursery,  and  was  greeted  with  shouts 
of  delight  as  a  deliverer  from  bondage.  My  wife  reminded 
me  of  our  contract:  personal  freedom — her  interpretation 
of  which  was  the  limitation  of  the  liberty  of  others — but  I 
took  no  notice  of  her. 

The  monomania  of  weak  and  inferior  brains,  that  desire 
to  equalise  what  can  never  be  equal,  was  the  cause  of  much 
mischief  in  my  family.  My  elder  daughter,  a  precocious 
child,  had  for  years  been  allowed  to  play  with  my  illus- 
trated books,  and  had,  besides,  enjoyed  many  of  the  priv- 


258  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

ileges  usually  enjoyed  by  the  firstborn.  Because  I  would 
not  extend  the  same  privileges  to  the  younger  one,  who  had 
no  idea  of  handling  an  expensive  book,  I  was  accused  of 
injustice. 

"  There  ought  to  be  no  difference  whatever,"  she  said. 

"  No  difference?  Not  even  in  the  quantity  of  clothes 
and  shoes  .^  " 

There  was  no  direct  reply  to  my  remark,  but  a  con- 
temptuous "  fool  "  made  up  for  the  omission. 

"  Every  one  according  to  merit  and  ability !  This  for 
the  elder,  that  for  the  younger  one !  " 

But  she  refused  to  understand  my  meaning,  and  stub- 
bornly maintained  that  I  was  an  unjust  father,  and 
"  hated  "  my  younger  daughter. 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  more  attached  to  the  elder  one, 
because  she  awakened  in  me  memories  of  the  first  beautiful 
days  of  my  life,  and  because,  also,  she  was  sensible  in  ad- 
vance of  her  years ;  I  may  also  have  been  influenced  by  the 
fact  that  the  younger  one  was  born  at  a  time  when  I  had 
grave  doubts  of  my  wife's  fidelity. 

The  mother's  "  justice,"  I  may  say,  evidenced  itself  in 
complete  indifference  to  the  children.  She  was  always 
either  out  or  asleep.  She  was  a  stranger  to  them,  and  they 
became  devoted  to  me;  their  preference  for  me  was  so 
marked  that  it  aroused  her  jealousy,  and  in  order  to  con- 
ciliate her,  I  made  a  practice  of  letting  her  distribute  the 
toys  and  sweets  which  I  bought  for  them,  hoping  that  in 
this  way  she  might  win  their  affection. 

The  little  ones  were  a  very  important  factor  in  my  life, 
and  in  my  darkest  moments,  when  I  was  almost  broken  by 
my  isolation,  contact  with  them  bound  me  afresh  to  life 
and  their  mother.  For  the  sake  of  the  children  the 
thought  of  divorcing  my  wife  was  unthinkable;  an  ominous 
fact,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  for  I  was  becoming  more 
and  more  her  abject  slave. 


Ill 

The  result  of  my  attack  on  the  strongholds  of  the 
feminists  soon  made  itself  felt.  The  Swiss  press  attacked 
me  in  such  a  manner  that  my  life  in  Switzerland  became 
unbearable.  The  sale  of  my  books  was  prohibited,  and 
I  fled,  hunted  from  town  to  town,  to  France. 

But  my  former  Paris  friends  had  deserted  me.  They 
had  become  my  wife's  allies,  and,  surrounded  and  hemmed 
in  like  a  wild  beast,  I  again  changed  the  arena;  almost 
without  means  I  at  last  made  port  in  a  colony  of  artists 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Paris. 

Alas!  I  was  caught  in  a  net,  and  I  remained  enmeshed 
for  ten  miserable  months ! 

The  society  in  which  I  found  myself  consisted  of  young 
Scandinavian  artists,  recruited  from  various  professions, 
some  of  them  of  strange  origin;  but,  worse  still,  there 
was  a  number  of  lady-artists,  women  without  prejudices, 
completely  emancipated  and  so  enamoured  with  herma- 
phroditic literature  that  they  believed  themselves  the  equals 
of  man.  They  tried  to  conceal  their  sex  as  far  as  possible 
by  adopting  certain  masculine  characteristics ;  they  smoked, 
drank,  played  billiards  .  .  .  and  made  love  to  each  other. 
They  wallowed  in  the  lowest  depths  of  immorality. 

As  an  alternative  to  utter  isolation,  we  made  friends 
with  two  of  those  monstrous  women;  one  of  them  was  a 
writer,  the  other  an  artist. 

The  writer  called  on  me  first,  as  is  customary  when  one 
happens  to  be  a  well-known  author.  My  wife  was  jealous 
at  once:  she  was  anxious  to  win  an  ally  sufficiently  en- 

259 


260  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

lightened  to  appreciate  my  arguments  against  the  unsexed. 

But  certain  events  happened  which  made  my  hence- 
forth notorious  mania  break  out  in  irrepressible  fury. 

The  hotel  boasted  of  an  album  which  contained  carica- 
tures of  all  the  well-known  Scandinavians,  sketched  by 
Scandinavian  artists.  My  portrait  was  amongst  them, 
adorned  with  a  horn  cleverly  contrived  by  the  manipulation 
of  a  lock  of  hair. 

The  artist  was  one  of  our  most  intimate  friends.  I  con- 
cluded that  my  wife's  infidelity  was  an  open  secret;  every- 
body knew  it,  everybody  except  myself.  I  asked  the 
proprietor  of  the  collection  for  an  explanation. 

Marie  had  taken  care  to  inform  him  of  my  mental  con- 
dition soon  after  our  arrival,  and  he  swore  that  the  decora- 
tion of  my  forehead  existed  in  my  imagination  only,  that 
there  was  no  trace  of  it  in  the  sketch,  and  that  I  had 
worked  myself  into  a  passion  for  no  reason  whatever.  I 
had  to  be  content  with  this  explanation  until  I  was  able- 
to  obtain  more  reliable  information. 

One  evening  we  were  sipping  our  cofifee  in  the  hotel  gar- 
den in  the  company  of  an  old  friend  who  had  just  arrived 
from  Sweden.  It  was  still  broad  daylight,  and  from  where  I 
sat  I  could  watch  every  expression  on  Marie's  face.  The 
old  man  gave  us  all  the  latest  news.  Amongst  other  names 
he  mentioned  that  of  the  doctor  who  had  treated  my  wife 
by  massage.  She  did  not  let  the  name  pass  without  com- 
ment, but  interrupted  him  with  a  defiant — 

"Ah!  you  know  the  doctor?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  he  is  a  very  popular  man.  ...  I  mean  to 
say  he  enjoys  a  certain  reputation " 

"  As  a  conceited  fool,"  I  interposed. 

Marie's  cheeks  grew  pale;  a  cynical  smile  drew  up  the 
comers   of   her   mouth,    so   that    her    white   teeth   became 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  261 

visible.  The  conversation  dropped  amid  a  general  sense 
of  embarrassment. 

When  I  was  left  alone  with  my  friend,  I  begged  him 
to  tell  me  frankly  what  he  knew  of  those  rumours  which 
were  giving  me  so  much  uneasiness.  He  swore  a  solemn 
oath  that  he  knew  nothing.  I  continued  urging  him,  and 
at  last  drew  from  him  the  following  enigmatical  words  of 
comfort — 

"  Moreover,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  suspect  one  man, 
you  may  be  sure  that  there  are  several." 

That  was  all.  But  from  this  day  onward  Marie,  who 
had  been  so  fond  of  telling  tales,  of  mentioning  the  doctor's 
name  in  public,  that  it  sometimes  seemed  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  get  accustomed  to  talk  about  him  without  blush- 
ing, never  again  alluded  to  him. 

This  discovery  impressed  me  so  much  that  I  took  the 
trouble  to  search  my  memory  for  similar  evidence.  I 
recollected  a  play  which  had  appeared  at  the  time  of  her 
divorce.  It  threw  light,  vague,  uncertain  light,  it  is  true, 
but  yet  sufficient  light,  on  the  channel  which  led  up  to 
the  source  of  those  rumours. 

A  play  by  the  famous  Norwegian  blue-stocking,  the 
promoter  of  the  "  equality-mania,"  had  fallen  into  my 
hands.  I  had  read  it  without  connecting  it  in  the  least 
with  my  own  case.  Now,  however,  I  applied  it  easily,  so 
easily  that  the  blackest  suspicions  of  my  wife's  good  fame 
seemed  justified. 

This  was  the  story  of  the  play — 

A  photographer  (the  realism  of  my  writings  had  won 
me  this  designation)  had  married  a  girl  of  doubtful  moral- 
ity. She  had  been  the  mistress  of  a  smelter,  and  funds 
which  she  received  from  her  former  lover  kept  her  home 
going.  She  made  herself  proficient  in  her  husband's  pro- 
fession ;  and  while  she  worked  left  him  to  loaf  and  spend  his 
time  in  the  cafes,  drinking  with  boon  companions. 


262  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

The  facts,  albeit  disguised  in  this  way,  must  have  been 
plain  enough  to  the  publisher;  for  although  the  latter  knew 
that  Marie  was  a  translator,  he  did  not  know  that  I  edited 
her  translations  and  paid  her  the  proceeds  of  her  work 
without  condition  or  deduction. 

Matters  did  not  improve  when  the  unfortunate  photo- 
grapher discovered  that  his  daughter,  whom  he  idolised, 
had  come  into  the  world  prematurely  and  was  not  his 
child  at  all,  that  he  had  been  duped  by  his  wife  when  she 
had  prevailed  on  him  to  marry  her. 

To  complete  his  degradation  the  deceived  husband  ac- 
cepted a  large  sum  from  the  old  lover  in  lieu  of  damages. 

In  this  I  saw  an  allusion  to  Marie's  loan  which  the  Baron 
had  guaranteed;  it  was  the  same  guarantee  which  I  had 
been  compelled  to  countersign  on  our  wedding-day. 

I  could  not,  at  first,  see  any  similitude  between  the 
illegitimate  birth  of  the  child  in  the  play  and  my  own 
case,  for  my  little  daughter  was  not  born  until  two  years 
after  our  marriage. 

But  I  reflected.  .  .  .  What  about  the  child  who  died  .<*... 
I  was  on  the  right  track !  .  .  .  Poor  little  dead  baby !  .  .  . 
It  had  been  the  cause  of  our  marriage  which  otherwise 
might  never  have  taken  place. 

I  knew  that  my  conclusion  was  not  altogether  sound, 
nevertheless  I  had  arrived  at  a  conclusion  of  some  sort. 
Everything  fitted  in.  Marie  had  visited  the  Baron  after 
the  divorce,  he  was  on  friendly  terms  with  us,  the  walls 
of  my  home  were  decorated  with  his  pictures,  there  was 
the  loan,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 

I  was  determined  to  act,  and  laid  my  plans  accordingly. 
I  intended  to  suggest  that  Marie  should  draw  up  an  indict- 
ment, or  rather  a  defence,  which  would  clear  us  both,  for 
both  of  us  had  been  attacked  by  the  feminists'  man  of  straw ; 
he,  doubtless,  had  been  bribed  into  undertaking  this  profit- 
able job. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  ^63 

When  Marie  entered  my  room,  I  received  her  in  the 
most  friendly  manner. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  she  asked. 

"  A  very  serious  thing  which  concerns  us  both !  "  I 
told  her  the  story  of  the  play,  and  added  that  the  actor 
who  played  the  part  of  the  photographer  had  made  up 
to  resemble  me. 

She  reflected,  silently,  a  prey  to  very  evident  excitement. 

Then  I  suggested  the  defence. 

"  If  it  is  true,  tell  me;  I  shall  forgive  you.  If  the  little 
one  who  died  was  indeed  Gustav's  baby,  well — you  were 
free  at  the  time;  vague  promises  only  bound  you  to  me, 
and  you  had  never  accepted  any  money  from  me.  As  for 
the  hero  of  the  play,  he  behaved,  in  my  opinion,  like  a 
man  of  heart;  he  was  incapable  of  ruining  the  future 
prospects  of  his  wife  and  daughter.  The  money  which  he 
accepted  on  behalf  of  the  child  was  nothing  but  a  quite 
egitimate  compensation  for  an  injury  done  to  him." 

She  listened  with  ^reat  attention;  her  small  soul  nibbled 
at  the  bait  without,  however,  swallowing  it. 

To  judge  from  the  calm  which  smoothed  her  conscience- 
stricken  features,  my  assertion  that  she  had  a  right  to  dis- 
pose of  her  body  because  she  had  never  taken  money  from 
me  pleased  her.  She  agreed  that  the  deceived  husband  was 
a  man  of  heart.     "  A  noble  heart,"  she  maintained. 

The  scene  ended  without  my  succeeding  to  draw  a  con- 
fession from  her.  I  showed  her  the  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty; I  appealed  to  her  for  advice  as  to  the  best  means  of 
repairing  our  honour;  suggested  that  we  should  publish  our 
"  defence  "  in  the  shape  of  a  novel,  and  so  cleanse  ourselves 
before  the  world  and  our  children  from  all  those  in- 
famies.  -    .    . 

I  talked  for  an  hour.  She  sat  at  my  writing-table, 
playing  with  my  penholder,  in  a  state  of  intense  agitation. 


264  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

without  making  a  sound,  only  giving  vent  occasionally  to 
a  short  exclamation. 

I  went  out  for  a  walk  and  then  played  a  game  of  bil- 
liards. When  I  returned,  after  a  couple  of  hours,  I  found 
her  still  sitting  in  the  same  place,  motionless,  like  a  statue. 

She  roused  herself  when  she  heard  my  footsteps. 

"  You  were  setting  a  trap  for  me !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Not  at  all !  Do  you  think  I  want  to  lose  the  mother  of 
my  children  for  ever.''  " 

"  I  consider  you  capable  of  anything.  You  want  to  be 
rid  of  me;  you  made  an  attempt  some  time  ago  when  you 
introduced  a  certain  friend  of  yours  to  me."  She  men- 
tioned a  name  which  had  never  before  been  mentioned  in 
this  connection.  "  You  hoped  that  I  should  betray  you 
with  him,  didn't  you?  " 

"Who  told  you  that?" 

"  Helga !  " 

"Helga?" 

She  was  Marie's  last  "  friend  "  before  we  left  Sweden. 
The  revenge  of  the  Lesbian ! 

"  And  you  believed  her?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did.  .  .  .  But  I  deceived  you  both,  him 
and  you !  " 

"  You  mean  there  was  a  third  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  so!  " 

"  But  you  just  confessed  it !  Since  you  deceived  both 
of  us,  you  must  have  deceived  me!  That  is  a  logical  con- 
clusion." 

She  fought  my  arguments  desperately,  and  demanded 
that  I  should  prove  them. 

"  Prove  them !    .    .    . " 

Her  treachery,  surpassing  the  lowest  depths  of  degrada- 
tion of  which  I  held  a  human  heart  capable,  weighed  on 
me  like  a  crushing  load.  I  bowed  my  head,  I  fell  on  my 
knees,  I  whined  for  mercy. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  265 

"  You  believed  in  the  tittle-tattle  of  that  woman !  You 
believed  that  I  wanted  to  be  rid  of  you!  And  yet  I  have 
never  been  anything  to  you  but  a  true  friend,  a  faithful 
husband ;  I  can't  live  without  you !  You  complained  of 
my  jealousy  .  .  .  while  I  regarded  all  women  who  run 
after  me,  trying  to  make  love  to  me,  as  evil  spirits.  You 
believed  what  that  woman  said !  ,  .  .  Tell  me,  did  you 
really  believe  it  ?  " 

She  was  moved  to  compassion,  and,  all  at  once,  yielding 
to  a  prompting  to  tell  the  truth,  she  confessed  that  she 
had  never  really  believed  it. 

"  And  you  deceived  me.  .  .  .  Confess  it,  I'll  forgive 
you.  .  .  .  Deliver  me  from  the  terrible,  pitiless  thoughts 
which  torment  me.    .    .    .    Confess  it.    ..." 

She  confessed  nothing,  and  merely  confined  herself  to 
calling  my  friend  a  "  scoundrel." 

A  scoundrel  he,  my  most  intimate,  my  closest  friend ! 

Oh,  that  I  lay  before  her  dead !    Life  was  unbearable.  . . . 

During  dinner  she  was  more  than  kind  to  me.  When  I 
had  gone  to  bed,  she  came  into  my  room,  and,  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  my  bed,  stroked  my  hands,  kissed  my  eyes,  and 
at  last,  shaken  to  the  very  foundation  of  her  soul,  burst 
into  uncontrollable  weeping. 

"  Don't  cry,  darling,  tell  me  what's  the  matter ;  let  me 
comfort  you!   ..." 

She  stammered  unintelligible,  disconnected  words  about 
my  generous  heart,  my  kindness,  my  forbearance,  the  great 
compassion  which  I  extended  even  to  the  worst  of  sinners. 

How  absurd  it  all  was !  I  accused  her  of  infidelity,  she 
praised  and  caressed  me. 

But  the  fire  had  been  kindled,  and  the  flames  could 
not  be  extinguished. 

She  had  deceived  me. 

I  must  know  the  name  of  my  rival! 


266  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

The  following  week  was  one  of  the  darkest  of  my  whole 
life. 

I  fought  a  desperate  fight  against  all  those  inbred 
principles  which  we  inherit,  or,  rather,  which  we  acquire 
through  education.  I  resolved  to  open  Marie's  letters 
and  make  sure  how  I  stood  with  her.  And  yet,  although 
I  allowed  her  to  open  all  communications  which  came  for 
me  during  my  absence,  I  recoiled  from  tampering  with  the 
sacred  law  of  the  inviolability  of  letters,  this  most  subtle 
obligation  imposed  on  us  by  silent  agreement  between  the 
whole  community. 

But  my  desire  to  know  the  full  truth  was  stronger  than 
my  sense  of  honour,  and  a  day  dawned  when  the  sacred 
law  was  forgotten.  A  letter  had  arrived;  I  opened  it  with 
trembling  fingers;  my  hands  shook  as  if  they  were  unfold- 
ing the  death-warrant  of  my  honour. 

It  was  a  letter  from  the  adventuress,  friend  No.  1.  The 
subject  of  it  was  my  insanity,  mockingly,  contemptuously 
discussed;  it  concluded  with  a  prayer  that  God  might 
soon  deliver  "  her  dear  Marie  "  from  her  martyrdom  by 
extinguishing  the  last  glimmer  of  my  reason. 

I  copied  the  worst  passages,  re-sealed  the  envelope,  and 
laid  the  letter  aside,  ready  to  hand  it  to  my  wife  with  the 
evening  mail.  When  the  time  came  I  gave  it  to  her,  and 
sat  down  by  her  side  to  watch  her  while  she  read  it. 

When  she  came  to  the  part  where  the  writer  prayed 
for  my  death — at  the  top  of  the  second  page — she  burst 
into  shrill  laughter. 

So  my  beloved  wife  saw  no  other  way  out  of  her  diffi- 
culties than  my  death.  It  was  her  only  hope  of  escape 
from  the  consequences  of  her  indiscretions.  When  I  was 
gone,  she  would  cash  my  life  insurance  and  receive  the 
pension  due  to  the  widow  of  a  famous  writer ;  then  she  would 
marry  again,  perhaps,  or  remain  a  gay  widow  all  her 
life   .    .    .  my  beloved  wife.   .    .    . 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  267 

Moriturus  sum!  I  resolved  to  hasten  the  catastrophe 
by  a  liberal  recourse  to  absinthe,  sole  source  of  happiness 
now,  and  in  the  meantime  play  billiards  to  calm  my  excited 
brain. 

A  fresh  complication  confronted  me,  worse,  if  possible, 
than  any  of  the  previous  ones.  The  authoress  who  had 
pretended  to  be  in  love  with  me  made  a  conquest  of  Marie, 
and  Marie  became  so  devoted  to  her  that  her  attachment 
gave  rise  to  a  great  deal  of  gossip.  This  roused  the 
jealousy  of  the  authoress's  former  "inseparable,"  a  fact 
which  was  not  calculated  to  contradict  the  ugly  rumours. 

One  evening  Marie  asked  me  whether  I  was  in  love 
with  her  friend.    .    .    . 

"  No,  on  the  contrary !  A  common  tippler !  You  can't 
be  serious !  " 

"  I  am  mad  on  her,"  she  replied.  "  It  is  strange,  isn't 
it?    .    .    .    I  am  afraid  of  being  alone  with  her!  " 

"Why.?" 

"I  don't  know!  She  is  so  charming  .  .   .  delicious.  ..." 

"  Indeed.   ..." 

In  the  following  week  we  invited  some  of  our  Paris 
friends,  artists,  without  scruples  or  prejudices,  and  their 
wives. 

The  men  came,  but  alone;  the  wives  sent  apologies,  so 
transparent  that  they  amounted  to  insults. 

Dinner  degenerated  into  perfect  orgy.  The  scandalous 
conduct  of  the  men  revolted  me. 

They  treated  Marie's  two  friends  as  if  they  were  prosti- 
tutes, and  when  every  one  was  more  or  less  intoxicated  I 
saw  one  of  the  officers  present  repeatedly  kissing  my  wife. 

I  waved  my  billiard  cue  above  their  heads  and  demanded 
an  explanation. 

"  He's  a  friend  of  my  childhood,  a  relative !  Don't  make 
yourself    a    laughing-stock,    you    silly ! "    replied    Marie. 


268  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  Moreover,  it  is  a  Russian  custom  to  kiss  in  public,  and 
we  are  Russian  subjects." 

"  Rubbish !  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  convives.  "  A  relative? 
Humbug!  " 

I  nearly  commited  a  murder  then.  I  had  every  intention 
to  .  ,  .  but  the  thought  of  leaving  my  children  without 
father  and  mother  arrested  my  arm. 

When  the  company  had  left  I  had  a  scene  with  Marie. 

•'  Prostitute !  " 

"Why.?" 

"  Because  you  submit  to  being  treated  like  one." 

"  Are  you  jealous?  " 

"Yes,  I  am  jealous;  jealous  of  my  honour,  the  dignity 
of  my  family,  the  reputation  of  my  wife,  the  future  of  my 
children !  It  is  because  of  your  unworthy  conduct  that  we 
are  ostracised  by  all  decent  women.  To  allow  a  stranger 
to  kiss  you  in  public !  Don't  you  realise  that  you  are  mad, 
that  you  neither  see,  nor  hear,  nor  understand  what  you  are 
doing,  that  you  are  absolutely  devoid  of  all  sense  of  duty? 
I  shall  have  you  shut  up  if  you  don't  mend  your  ways, 
and,  to  begin  with,  I  forbid  you  to  have  anything  more  to 
do  with  those  two  women !  " 

"  It's  all  your  fault !     You  egged  me  on !  " 

"  I  wanted  to  see  how  far  you  would  go !  " 

"  See  how  far  I  would  go !  What  proof  have  you 
that  the  relationship  between  me  and  my  friends  is  such 
as  you  suspect  ?  " 

"  What  proof !  None !  But  I  have  your  admissions, 
your  slippery  tales.  And  didn't  one  of  your  friends  admit 
that  in  her  own  country  she  would  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  law  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  denied  the  existence  of  vice !  " 

"  I  don't  care  how  your  friends  amuse  themselves  so  long 
as  their  amusements  do  not  interfere  with  the  welfare  of 
my  family.    From  the  moment,  however^  that  their  *  pecu- 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  269 

liarities,'  if  you  prefer  this  word,  threaten  to  injure  us, 
they  are,  as  far  as  we  are  concerned,  criminal  acts.  True, 
as  a  philosopher,  I  don't  admit  the  existence  of  vice,  but 
only  of  physical  or  moral  defects.  And,  quite  recently, 
when  this  unnatural  tendency  was  discussed  in  the  French 
parliament,  all  the  French  physicians  of  note  were  of 
opinion  that  it  was  not  the  province  of  the  law  to  interfere 
in  these  matters,  except  in  cases  where  the  interests  of 
individual  citizens  were  violated." 

I  might  as  well  have  preached  to  stone  walls.  How 
could  I  hope  to  make  this  woman,  who  acknowledged  no 
other  law  but  her  animal  instincts,  grasp  a  philosophical 
distinction ! 

To  be  quite  sure  of  the  facts,  I  wrote  to  a  friend  in 
Paris  and  asked  him  to  tell  me  the  plain  truth. 

In  his  reply,  which  was  very  candid,  he  told  me  that  my 
wife's  perverse  tendencies  were  no  secret  in  Scandinavia, 
and  that  the  two  Danes  were  well-known  Lesbians  in  Paris. 

We  were  in  debt  at  our  hotel,  and  had  no  money;  there- 
fore we  were  unable  to  move.  But  the  two  Danish  ladies 
got  into  trouble  with  the  peasants,  and  were  compelled  to 
leave. 

We  had  known  them  for  eight  months,  and  an  abrupt 
termination  of  our  friendship  was  impossible;  moreover, 
they  belonged  to  good  families,  and  were  well  educated; 
they  had  been  comrades  in  trouble,  and  I  resolved  to  grant 
them  a  retreat  with  honours.  A  farewell  banquet  was  there- 
fore arranged  in  the  studio  of  one  of  the  young  artists. 

At  dessert,  when  every  one  was  more  or  less  gay  with 
the  wine  which  had  been  drunk,  Marie,  overcome  by  her 
feelings,  rose  to  sing  a  song  of  her  own  composition.  It 
was  an  imitation  of  the  well-known  song  in  Mignon,  and  in 
it  she  bade  farewell  to  her  friend.  She  sang  with  fire  and 
genuine  feeling,  her  almond-shaped  eyes  were  full  of  tears 
and  glowed  softly  in  the  reflection  of  the  candle-light;  she 


270  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

opened  her  heart  so  wide  that  even  I  was  touched  and 
charmed.  There  was  a  candour,  an  ingenuousness  in  this 
woman's  love-song  to  a  woman,  so  pathetic  that  it  kept  all 
unchaste  thoughts  at  bay.  And  how  strange  it  was !  She 
had  neither  the  appearance  nor  the  manners  of  the  herma- 
phrodite; she  was  essentially  woman;  loving,  tender,  mys- 
terious, unfathomable  woman. 

How  different  from  her  was  the  object  of  her  tender- 
ness !  She  was  a  pure  Russian  type,  with  masculine  feat- 
ures, a  hooked  nose,  a  massive  chin,  yellow  eyes  and  bloated 
cheeks,  a  flat  chest,  crooked  fingers — a  truly  hideous  woman 
— a  peasant  would  not  have  looked  at  her. 

When  she  had  finished  her  song  Marie  sat  down  by  the 
side  of  this  freak;  the  latter  rose,  took  Marie's  head  in  her 
two  hands  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  That  at  least  was 
pure  and  unadulterated  sensuality. 

I  drank  with  the  Russian  until  she  was  quite  intoxi- 
cated; she  stumbled,  looked  at  me  with  large,  bewildered 
eyes,  and,  sobbing  like  an  imbecile,  clutched  the  wall  to 
support  herself.  I  had  never  before  seen  such  ugliness  in 
human  shape. 

The  banquet  ended  with  a  row  in  the  street.  On  the 
following  morning  the  two  Danes  left. 

Marie  passed  through  a  terrible  crisis;  I  was  genuinely 
sorry  for  her;  her  longing  for  her  friend,  her  suffering, 
were  unmistakable.  It  was  a  genuine  instance  of  unhappy 
love.  She  went  for  solitary  walks  in  the  woods,  sang  love- 
songs,  visited  the  favourite  haunts  of  her  friends,  exhibited 
every  symptom  of  a  wounded  heart.  I  began  to  entertain" 
fears  for  her  sanity.  She  was  unhappy,  and  I  could  not 
console  her.  She  avoided  my  caresses,  pushed  me  aside 
when  I  tried  to  kiss  her.  My  heart  was  full  of  hatred  for 
the  woman  who  had  robbed  me  of  my  wife's  love.  Per- 
fectly unconscious  of  herself,  Marie  made  no  secret  of  the 
identity  of  the  person  for  whom  she  was  mourning.     She 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  271 

talked  of  nothing  but  her  love  and  her  sorrow.     It  was 
incredible ! 

The  two  friends  carried  on  a  brisk  correspondence. 
Infuriated  with  her  indifference  to  me,  I  one  day  seized 
one  of  her  friend's  letters.  It  was  a  genuine  love-letter. 
"  My  darling,  my  little  puss,  my  clever,  delicate,  tender, 
noble-hearted  Marie;  that  coarse  husband  of  yours  is  but 
a  stupid  brute  .  .  ."  and  so  on.  The  letter  further 
suggested  that  she  should  leave  me,  and  proposed  ways 
and  means  of  escape.     .     . 

I  stood  up  against  my  rival,  and  on  the  same  evening 
— oh,  my  God !  Marie  and  I  fought  in  the  moonshine. 
She  bit  my  hands,  I  dragged  her  to  the  river  to  drown 
her  like  a  kitten — when  suddenly  I  saw  a  vision  of  my 
children.    It  brought  me  to  my  senses. 

I  resolved  to  put  an  end  to  myself,  but  before  doing  so 
I  determined  to  write  the  story  of  my  life. 

The  first  part  of  the  book  was  finished  when  the  news 
spread  through  the  village  that  the  Danish  ladies  had  en- 
gaged rooms. 

I  instantly  had  the  trunks  packed,  and  we  left  for 
German  Switzerland. 


IV 

Lovely  Argovia !  Sweet  Arcady,  where  the  postmaster 
tends  his  flocks,  where  the  colonel  drives  the  only  cab, 
where  the  young  girls  are  virgins  when  they  marry,  and  the 
young  men  shoot  at  targets  and  play  the  drum.  Utopia ! 
land  of  the  golden  beer  and  smoked  sausages;  birthplace 
of  the  game  of  ninepins,  the  House  of  Habsburg,  William 
Tell,  rustic  merry-makings  and  naive  songs  straight  from 
the  heart,  pastors'  wives  and  vicarage  idylls ! 

Peace  returned  to  our  troubled  hearts.  I  recovered,  and 
Marie,  weary  of  strife,  wrapped  herself  in  undisguised 
indifference.  We  played  backgammon  as  a  safety-valve, 
and  our  conversations,  so  fraught  with  danger,  were  re- 
placed by  the  rolling  of  dice.  I  drank  good,  wholesome 
beer  instead  of  wine  and  the  nerve-shattering  absinthe. 

The  influence  of  our  environment  soon  made  itself  felt. 
I  was  amazed  to  find  that  such  serene  calm  could  follow 
the  storms  we  had  weathered,  that  the  elasticity  of  the 
mind  could  withstand  so  many  shocks,  that  we  could  forget 
the  past,  that  I  could  fancy  myself  the  happiest  husband 
of  the  most  faithful  wife. 

Marie,  deprived  of  all  society  and  friends,  uncomplain- 
ingly devoted  herself  to  her  children.  After  a  month  had 
elapsed  the  little  ones  were  dressed  in  frocks  which  she  had 
cut  out  and  made  with  her  own  hands.  She  was  never 
impatient  with  them,  and  allowed  them  to  absorb  her 
completely. 

For  the  first  time  now  I  noticed  a  certain  lassitude  in 
272 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  273 

her;  her  love  of  pleasure  was  less  pronounced,  approach- 
ing middle-age  made  itself  felt.  How  grieved  she  was 
when  she  lost  her  first  tooth!  Poor  girl!  She  wept,  put 
her  arms  round  me  and  implored  me  never  to  cease  loving 
her.  She  was  now  thirty-seven  years  old.  Her  hair  had 
grown  thinner,  her  bosom  had  sunk  like  the  waves  of  the 
sea  after  a  storm,  the  stairs  tired  her  little  feet,  her  lungs 
no  longer  worked  with  the  old  pressure. 

And  I,  although  I  had  not  yet  reached  my  prime,  al- 
though my  strength  was  increasing  and  I  enjoyed  excellent 
health,  I  loved  her  more  than  ever  at  the  thought  that 
now  she  would  belong  entirely  to  me  and  her  children. 
Shielded  from  temptation,  surrounded  by  my  tender  care, 
she  would  grow  old  in  the  fulfilment  of  her  duties  towards 
her  family.    .    .    . 

Her  return  to  a  more  normal  state  of  mind  manifested 
itself  in  many  pathetic  ways.  Realising  her  hazardous 
position  as  the  wife  of  a  comparatively  young  man  of  thirty- 
eight,  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  be  jealous  of  me;  she 
was  more  particular  about  the  details  of  her  dress,  and 
took  care  of  herself  during  the  day,  so  that  she  might  be 
fresh  and  able  to  please  me  in  the  evening. 

She  need  have  had  no  fear,  for  I  am  monogamous  by 
temperament,  and,  far  from  abusing  the  situation,  I  did 
my  utmost  to  spare  her  the  cruel  pangs  of  jealousy  by 
giving  her  proof  after  proof  of  my  renewed  love. 

In  the  autumn  I  made  up  my  mind  to  make  a  tour 
through  French  Switzerland;  I  intended  to  be  away  for 
three  weeks,  and  never  stay  longer  than  a  day  at  any  one 
place. 

Marie,  still  clinging  to  the  idea  of  my  shattered  health, 
tried  to  dissuade  me. 

"  I  am  sure  it  will  kill  you,"  she  reiterated. 

"  We  shall  see  I  " 


274.  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

The  tour  was  a  point  of  honour  with  me,  an  attempt  to 
win  her  back  completely,  to  reawaken  in  her  the  love  of 
the  virile. 

I  returned  after  incredible  hardships,  strong,  brown  and 
healthy. 

There  was  a  look  of  admiration,  a  challenge  in  her  eyes 
when  she  met  me,  which  was,  however,  quickly  superseded 
by  a  look  of  disappointment. 

I,  on  the  other  hand,  after  my  three  weeks'  absence  and 
abstinence,  treated  her  as  a  man  treats  a  beloved  mistress, 
a  wife  from  whom  he  has  been  parted  all  too  long.  I  put 
my  arm  round  her  waist  and,  like  a  conqueror,  seized  my 
own,  after  a  journey  of  forty-eight  hours  without  a 
break.  .  .  .  She  did  not  know  what  to  think;  she  was 
amazed,  afraid  of  betraying  her  real  feelings;  frightened 
at  the  thought  of  finding  the  "  tamer  "  in  her  husband. 

When  my  excitement  had  abated  a  little,  I  noticed  that 
Marie's  expression  had  undergone  a  change.  I  scrutinised 
her  appearance :  her  missing  tooth  had  been  replaced,  a  fact 
which  made  her  look  much  younger.  Certain  details  of  her 
dress  betrayed  a  wish  to  please.  It  roused  my  attention. 
I  soon  discovered  the  reason  in  the  presence  of  a  young  girl 
of  about  fourteen,  with  whom  she  was  exceedingly  friendly. 
They  kissed  one  another,  went  for  walks  together,  bathed 
together.   .    .    . 

There  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  to  take  her  away 
it  once. 


We  took  rooms  in  a  German  private  hotel  on  the  shores 
of  the  Lake  of  Lucerne. 

Marie  relapsed  into  her  former  ways.  She  paid  a  great 
deal  of  attentioii  to  one  of  the  guests,  a  young  officer; 
played  ninepins  with  him,  and  took  melancholy  walks  in 
the  garden  while  I  worked. 

I  noticed  at  dinner  that  they  exchanged  tender  glances, 
although  no  words  were  uttered.  They  seemed  to  caress 
one  another  with  the  eyes.  I  resolved  to  put  them  to  the 
test  at  once,  and,  turning  round  sharply,  looked  straight 
into  my  wife's  face.  She  tried  to  throw  me  off  the  scent 
by  letting  her  eyes  glide  along  the  young  man's  temples 
until  they  rested  on  the  wall,  on  a  spot  which  was  adorned 
by  a  huge  poster  advertising  a  brewery.  She  made  an 
inane  remark  to  cover  her  confusion. 

"  Is  that  a  new  brewery?  "  she  stammered. 

"  Yes  ,  .  .  but  don't  imagine  that  you  can  hoodwink 
me,"  I  retorted. 

She  bent  her  neck,  as  if  I  had  pulled  in  the  reins,  and 
remained  silent. 

Two  days  later,  in  the  evening,  on  pretence  of  being 
tired,  she  kissed  me  good-night  and  left  the  room.  I  too 
went  to  bed,  and  after  reading  for  a  little  while,  fell  asleep. 

All  of  a  sudden  I  awoke.  Some  one  was  playing  the 
piano  in  the  drawing-room;  a  voice  was  singing — it  was 
Marie's  voice. 

I  arose  and  called  the  children's  nurse. 
275 


276  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

"  Go  and  tell  your  mistress  to  go  to  bed  at  once/'  I 
said.  "  Tell  her  that  if  she  refuses  I  shall  come  down 
myself  and  shake  her  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  com- 
pany." 

Marie  came  up-stairs  at  once.  She  seemed  ashamed, 
and  with  an  air  of  injured  innocence  she  asked  me  why  I 
had  sent  her  so  strange  a  message;  why  I  would  not  allow 
her  to  stay  in  the  drawing-room,  although  there  were  other 
ladies  present.'' 

"  I  don't  mind  your  staying  in  the  drawing-room,"  I 
replied  angrily.  "  But  I  do  object  to  your  sly  ways  of 
getting  rid  of  me  whenever  you  want  to  be  there  by  your- 
self." 

"If  you  insist,  very  well,  I'll  go  to  bed." 

This  candour,  this  sudden  submission.  .  .  .  What  had 
happened  } 

Winter  had  set  in  in  good  earnest.  There  was  an 
abundance  of  snow;  the  sky  was  leaden,  and  we  were  cut 
off  from  all  society.  Everybody  had  left;  we  were  the 
last  guests  in  the  modest  hotel.  The  extreme  cold  com- 
pelled us  to  take  our  meals  in  the  large  public  dining-room 
of  the  restaurant. 

One  morning,  while  we  were  at  luncheon,  a  strong,  thick- 
set man,  rather  nice-looking,  evidently  belonging  to  the 
servant  class,  entered,  sat  down  at  one  of  the  tables,  and 
asked  for  a  glass  of  wine. 

Marie  scrutinised  the  stranger  in  her  free  and  easy  man- 
ner, took  his  measure,  as  it  were,  and  became  lost  in  a 
reverie. 

The  man  went  away,  confused  and  flattered  by  her 
attention. 

"  A  nice-looking  man,"  she  remarked,  turning  to  the 
host. 

"  He  used  to  be  my  porter." 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  277 

"  Was  he  ?  He  really  is  unusually  good-looking  for  his 
class !     A  very  nice-looking  man  indeed !  " 

And  she  went  into  details,  praising  his  virile  beauty  in 
terms  which  puzzled  our  host. 

On  the  following  morning  the  dashing  ex-porter  was 
already  in  his  place  when  we  entered.  Dressed  in  his 
Sunday  best,  hair  and  beard  trimmed,  he  appeared  to  be 
fully  aware  of  his  conquest.  He  bowed;  my  wife  acknowl- 
edged his  bow  with  a  graceful  bending  of  her  head;  he 
squared  his  shoulders  and  gave  himself  the  airs  of  a 
Napoleon. 

He  returned  on  the  third  day,  determined  to  break  the 
ice.  He  started  a  polite  conversation,  reminiscent  of  the 
back-door,  all  the  while  addressing  himself  directly  to  my 
wife  without  wasting  any  time  over  the  usual  trick  of  first 
conciliating  the  husband. 

It  was  intolerable! 

Marie,  in  the  presence  of  her  husband  and  children, 
allowed  herself  to  be  drawn  into  a  discussion  by  a  stranger. 

Once  more  I  tried  to  open  her  eyes,  begged  her  to  be 
more  careful  of  her  reputation. 

Her  only  answer  was  her  usual :  "  You  have  a  nasty 
mind !  " 

A  second  Apollo  came  to  the  rescue.  He  was  the  village 
tobacconist,  an  undersized  man,  at  whose  shop  Marie  was 
in  the  habit  of  making  small  purchases.  More  shrewd  than 
the  porter,  he  tried  to  make  friends  with  me  first;  he  was 
of  a  more  enterprising  nature.  At  the  first  meeting  he 
stared  impudently  at  Marie  and  loudly  exclaimed  to  our 
host — 

"  I  say,  what  a  distinguished-looking  family !  " 

Marie's  heart  caught  fire,  and  the  village  beau  returned 
night  after  night. 

One   evening   he   was   intoxicated,   and   therefore   more 


278  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

insolent  than  usual.  He  approached  Marie  while  we  were 
playing  backgammon,  and  asked  her  to  explain  the  rules 
of  the  game  to  him.  I  answered  as  civilly  as  I  could  under 
the  circumstances,  and  the  worthy  man  returned  to  his  seat, 
snubbed.  Marie,  more  sensitive  than  I,  was  under  the 
impression  that  she  ought  to  make  amends  for  my  rudeness ; 
she  turned  to  him  with  the  first  question  which  came  into 
her  mind — 

"  Do  you  play  billiards  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No,  madame,  or  rather,  I  play  badly.    .    .    ." 

He  rose  again,  approached  a  step  or  two,  and  offered 
me  a  cigar.     I  declined. 

He  turned  to  Marie.  "Won't  you  smoke,  madame?" 
Fortunately  for  her,  for  the  tobacconist  and  the  future  of 
my  family,  she  too  declined,  but  she  refused  in  a  manner 
which  flattered  him. 

How  dared  this  man  offer  a  lady  a  cigarette  in  a 
restaurant  in  the  presence  of  her  husband.'' 

Was  I  a  jealous  fool?  Or  was  my  wife's  conduct  so 
scandalous  that  she  excited  the  desire  of  the  first-comer  ? 

We  had  a  scene  in  our  room,  for  I  regarded  her  as  a 
somnambulist  whom  it  was  my  duty  to  awaken.  She  was 
walking  straight  to  her  doom,  without  being  in  the  least 
aware  of  it.  I  gave  her  an  epitome  of  her  sins,  old  and 
new,  and  minutely  criticised  her  conduct. 

Silently,  with  a  pale  face  and  dream-shadowed  eyes, 
she  listened  until  I  had  finished.  Then  she  rose  and  went 
down-stairs  to  bed.  But  this  time — for  the  first  time  in  my 
life — I  fell  so  low  as  to  play  the  spy.  I  crept  down-stairs, 
found  her  bedroom  door,  and  looked  through  the  keyhole. 

The  rich  glow  of  the  lamp  fell  on  the  children's  nurse, 
who  sat  opposite  the  door  right  in  the  field  of  my  vision. 
Marie  was  pacing  the  room  excitedly,  vehemently  denounc- 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  279 

ing  my  unfounded  suspicions;  she  conducted  her  case  as  a 
criminal  conducts  his  defence. 

And  yet  I  was  innocent,  quite  innocent,  in  spite  of  all 
my  opportunities  to  sin.    .    .    . 

She  produced  two  glasses  of  beer,  and  they  drank 
together.  They  sat  down,  side  by  side,  and  Marie  looked 
at  her  caressingly.  Closer  and  closer  she  moved  to  the 
girl,  put  her  head  on  the  shoulders  of  this  new  friend, 
slipped  her  arm  round  her  waist  and  kissed  her.   .    .    . 

Poor  Marie !  Poor,  unhappy  woman,  who  sought  com- 
fort far  from  me,  who  alone  could  set  her  mind  at  rest 
and  give  her  peace.  All  of  a  sudden  she  drew  herself  up, 
listened,  and  pointed  towards  the  door. 

"  Some  one's  there !  " 

I  slipped  away. 

When  I  returned  to  my  post  of  observation  I  noticed 
that  Marie  was  half  undressed,  exposing  her  shoulders  to 
the  gaze  of  the  girl,  who,  however,  remained  quite  unmoved. 
Then  she  resumed  her  defence. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  is  mad !  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  he  tried  to  poison  me.  ...  I  suffer  unbear- 
able pains  in  my  inside.  .  .  .  But  no,  it's  hardly  prob- 
able .  .  .  perhaps  I  ought  to  fly  to  Finland.  .  .  .  What 
do  you  think?  .  .  .  Only  it  would  kill  him,  for  he  loves 
the  children.    ..." 

What  was  this,  if  not  the  outpourings  of  an  evil  con- 
science .''...  Stung  with  remorse,  she  was  terror-stricken 
and  sought  refuge  on  the  bosom  of  a  woman !  She  was 
a  perverted  child;  an  unfaithful  wife,  a  criminal;  but, 
above  all,  she  was  an  unhappy  woman. 

I  lay  awake  all  night,  a  prey  to  my  tormenting  thoughts. 
At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  heard  her  moaning  in 
her  sleep.  Full  of  pity,  I  knocked  on  the  floor  to  dispel 
the  visions  which  terrified  her.  It  was  not  the  first  time 
that  I  had  done  this. 


280  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

She  thanked  me  on  the  following  morning  for  having 
awakened  her  from  her  nightmare,  I  made  much  of  her, 
and  begged  her  to  tell  me,  her  best  friend,  everything. 

"  Tell  you  what?    ...    I  have  nothing  to  tell," 

I  should  have  given  her  absolution  for  whatever  crime 
she  had  confessed  to  me  at  that  moment,  for  my  heart 
was  full  of  compassion.  I  loved  her  with  an  infinite  love, 
despite  of,  or  perhaps  because  of,  all  the  misery  she  had 
wrought.  She  was  but  an  unhappy  woman.  How  could 
I  raise  my  hand  against  her.'' 

But  instead  of  delivering  me  once  and  for  all  from  the 
terrible  doubts  which  haunted  me,  she  offered  me  the  most 
strenuous  resistance.  She  had  persuaded  herself  that  I 
was  insane;  her  instinct  of  self-preservation  had  built  up 
a  legend  behind  which  she  could  shield  herself  from  the 
attacks  of  her  anguished  conscience. 

Sunwards. 

Not  a  single  ray  of  sunlight  had  gladdened  the  little 
village  of  Gersau  on  the  shore  of  the  Lake  of  Lucerne 
for  three  long  weeks,  not,  in  fact,  since  the  beginning  of 
October,  when  the  Foehn  began  to  blow.  There  had  been 
a  dead  calm;  after  sunset  I  had  fallen  asleep  and  slept 
until  I  was  awakened,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  by  the 
ringing  of  the  church  bells  and  a  noise  which  mingled 
with  the  peculiar  rushing  sound  of  the  tempest  as  it  came 
sweeping  across  the  Alps,  flung  itself  on  the  southern  shore 
of  the  lake,  was  compressed  into  the  valley  and  forced  into 
the  streets  of  our  village,  where  it  tore  at  the  signs,  shook 
the  window  shutters,  rattled  the  slates  and  howled  through 
the  branches  of  trees  and  shrubs. 

The  waves  of  the  lake  dashed  against  the  dam,  foamed 
over  the  border  and  plashed  against  the  sides  of  the  boats. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  281 

Handfuls  of  storm-lashed  sand  were  flung  at  our  windows ; 
the  leaves,  torn  from  their  branches,  went  dancing  and 
whirling  by,  the  doors  of  the  stoves  clattered,  the  walls 
shook.  I  looked  out  of  the  window;  the  church  was  lighted 
up,  and  the  bells  were  ringing  to  awaken  those  who  still 
slept.  In  these  parts  the  Foehn  is  accounted  as  full  of 
danger  as  an  earthquake,  for  it  does  not  only  sweep  away 
the  houses,  but  it  tears  the  mountains  to  pieces  and  flings 
them  into  the  valleys.  Our  house  was  situated  at  the  base 
of  a  mountain  which,  though  only  fifteen  hundred  metres 
high,  carried  on  its  summit  a  loose  litter  of  rocks,  pecu- 
liarly adapted  to  stone-throwing  on  a  large  scale.  The 
tempest  raged  for  three  hours,  then  the  danger  was  over; 
but  on  the  following  morning  everybody  in  the  village  knew 
that  at  Schwyz  a  rock  had  fallen  on  a  farmhouse  and  car- 
ried away  the  right  wing  without  injury  to  those  who  lived 
in  the  left. 

After  this  warm  but  terrific  gale  a  fog  descended  on 
village  and  lake.  The  sky  was  overcast,  but  no  rain  fell; 
yet  there  was  no  sunshine.  This  continued  for  three 
weeks,  and  if  the  outlook  had  been  grey  to  begin  with, 
it  ended  by  being  black.  The  beautiful  alpine  landscape, 
the  unrivalled  restorer  of  flagging  spirits,  had  lost  its 
potency,  for  it  was  impossible  to  see  further  ahead  than 
a  hundred  yards  up  the  steep  rocks ;  the  heart  became  heavy 
as  lead  and  indescribably  depressed.  The  tourists  had 
turned  their  faces  homewards,  the  hotels  were  empty, 
November  was  upon  us,  sombre  and  gloomy.  The  hours 
dragged  on  wearily;  one  longed  for  the  end  of  the  dreary 
day  and  the  cheerful  light  of  the  lamps;  the  dismal  sky 
was  grey,  the  lake  was  grey,  the  landscape  was  grey. 

No  wind,  no  rain,  no  thunder.  Nature,  so  varied  and 
diversified,  had  become  monotonous,  calm  and  quiet;  so 
peaceful  that  an  earthquake  would  have  been  a  relief. 

Wherever    the    light    did    not    fall,    greyness    reigned; 


282  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

vision  was  dimmed,  and  drowsiness,  akin  to  laziness,  en- 
veloped the  soul. 

One  evening,  when  I  complained  to  the  magistrate  of 
the  long  absence  of  the  sun,  he  answered  with  the  phlegm 
which   characterises   the   German-Swiss — 

"  The  sun !  You  can  see  the  sun  all  day  long  on  the 
Hochfluh !  " 

The  Hochfluh  was  one  of  the  small  mountain  ranges 
which  surrounded  the  valley  in  which  we  lived;  it  was 
only  two  hundred  metres  lower  than  the  Sulitelma,  and 
consequently  a  favourite  walk  of  young  English  tourists. 
Being  a  worshipper  of  the  sun,  I  decided  to  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  my  deity,  and  early  one  November  morn- 
ing I  set  out  on  my  travels. 

The  inhabitants  of  Gersau,  living  at  the  base  of  a 
mountain  which,  as  I  have  already  mentioned,  every  now 
and  then  transforms  itself  into  a  volcano  and  rains  rocks 
and  stones  on  the  valleys,  have  from  time  immemorial 
cultivated  the  habit  of  preparing  themselves  for  death  by 
visiting  their  church  three  times  a  day,  at  morning,  noon 
and  evening.  I  was  not  surprised,  therefore,  to  meet  the 
church-goers  now,  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  carrying 
their  Prayer  Books  in  their  hands.  Two  old  women, 
patiently  performing  their  daily  half-mile  trudge  to  morn- 
ing prayers,  were  counting  their  beads  on  the  highroad. 
One  of  them  started  the  angelic  salutation  "  Ave  Maria !  " 
and  her  companion  joined  in  the  burden  "  In  saecula 
saecvdorum.  Amen,"  They  kept  up  their  monotonous' 
mumbling  the  whole  way,  and  though  this  counting  of 
beads  may  not  have  done  any  actual  good,  it  at  least  pre- 
vented any  misuse  of  the  tongue;  I  could  not  help  thinking 
of  the  well-known  anecdote  of  the  count  who  made  his 
butler  whistle  whenever  he  was  busy  in  the  wine  cellar. 

Soon  after  I  had  left  the  old  women  and  the  highroad 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  283 

behind,  and  begun  the  ascent,  I  came  upon  some  sights 
which  were  so  striking  that  they  made  a  lasting  impres- 
sion on  me.  Close  to  the  first  curve  of  the  road  grew  a 
walnut  tree,  to  which  were  nailed  a  crucifix  and  a  tablet; 
the  inscription  on  the  latter  informed  the  passer-by  that 
farmer  Seppi,  while  busy  with  the  harvest,  fell  from  the 
tree  and  was  killed.  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul!  Pray 
for  him  !     Amen ! 

At  the  next  corner  there  was  a  queer  little  shrine  built 
of  whitewashed  bricks,  small  like  a  child's  dolls'-house. 
A  peep  through  the  railings  disclosed  pictures  of  the  Holy 
Family,  painted,  perhaps,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and 
a  legend  to  the  effect  that  criminals  on  their  way  to 
execution  were  allowed  a  few  minutes'  respite  before  the 
shrine  to  utter  a  last  prayer.  I  was,  therefore,  on  the 
road  which  led  to  the  gallows,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
I  arrived  at  the  place  of  execution,  a  pleasant  open  spot  on 
the  top  of  an  overhanging  cliff  which  jutted  out  in  the 
direction  of  the  lake.  From  this  point  one  had  a  magni- 
ficent view.  To  bid  farewell  to  life  with  a  last  look  at 
such  a  picture  as  greets  the  eye  from  the  summit  of  Pilatus, 
Buechserhorn  or  Buergenstock  is  quite  conceivably  a 
genuine  pleasure.  Even  Voltaire  could  have  felt  none 
of  the  repugnance  which  was  excited  in  him  by  the  idea 
of  being  hanged  in  secret,  a  contingency  which  filled  him 
with  such  extreme  disgust,  that  he  was  quite  consistent 
in  accusing  Rousseau  of  a  vanity  so  great  that  it  would 
permit  him  to  submit  cheerfully  to  be  hanged,  if  he 
could  be  sure  of  his  name  being  nailed  to  the  gallows. 

In  the  distance,  near  the  shore,  I  could  dimly  discern 
a  faint  outline  of  a  haunted  little  church,  called  "  Kindli- 
mord "  because  a  grief -stricken  father  is  said  there  to 
have  killed  his  starving  child. 

I  left  these  four  melancholy  landmarks  behind  me  in 


284  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

the  grey  morning  light,  and  hastened  my  ascent  to  those 
happier  heights  where  the  sun  was  shining. 

Very  soon  beeches  took  the  place  of  chestnut  and  wal- 
nut trees.  I  rested  for  a  while  in  a  dairy  cottage  in 
the  company  of  fine  cattle  and  a  horrible  cur,  and  then 
entered  cloudland.  I  seemed  to  be  walking  in  a  dense 
fog,  which  grew  in  density  and  almost  completely  blotted 
out  the  landscape.  The  effort  to  see  made  my  eyes  ache; 
trees  and  shrubs  loomed  indistinctly  through  a  cloud  of 
smoke;  the  millions  of  cobwebs  which  festooned  the 
branches  were  richly  studded  with  raindrops;  it  looked 
as  if  the  old  woman  of  the  wood,  if  there  is  such  a  being, 
had  hung  up  thousands  of  lace  handkerchiefs  to  dry. 

It  was  difficult  to  breathe;  the  fog  hung  on  my  coat, 
hair,  beard  and  eyebrows,  gave  out  a  stale,  sickly  smell, 
and  rendered  the  rocks  so  smooth  and  slippery  that  I 
could  hardly  keep  my  footing;  it  darkened  the  heart  of 
the  wood,  where  the  trunks  were  quickly  swallowed  up  in 
a  monotonous  grey,  which  limited  the  range  of  vision  to 
a  few  yards. 

I  had  to  climb  up  through  this  layer  of  fog,  extending 
about  a  thousand  metres  upwards,  a  cold  and  damp 
purgatory,  before  I  could  reach  the  sun;  and  I  struggled 
on,  with  sublime  faith  in  the  magistrate's  word  of  honour 
that  the  fog  would  cease  before  the  mountain  ceased  and 
grey  space  began. 

I  had  no  barometer  with  me,  but  I  felt  that  I  was 
ascending,  that  the  fog  was  growing  less  dense,  and  that 
I  was  approaching  a  purer  atmosphere. 

A  feeling  of  intoxication  seized  me — a  faint  glimmer 
from  above  dimly  illuminated  the  narrow  pass,  like  the 
first  dawn  of  day  shining  through  the  picture  of  a 
landscape  painted  on  a  window-blind;  the  trees  stood  out 
more  distinctly,  the  field  of  vision  increased,  the  tinkling 
of    cowbells — from    above — fell    on    my    ear.      And    now. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  285 

right  on  the  summit,  there  hung  a  golden  cloud;  a  few 
more  steps  and  the  stunted  beeches  and  brushwood  shone 
and  glittered,  dazzling  splashes  of  gold,  copper,  bronze 
and  silver,  wherever  a  stream  of  broken  sunlight  fell  on 
the  faded  foliage  which  was  still  clinging  to  the  branches. 
I  was  standing  in  an  autumn  landscape  looking  out  into 
a  sun-bathed  summerland;  through  my  mind  flashed  the 
memory  of  a  sail  on  the  Lake  of  Malar;  I  remembered 
how  I  was  sitting  in  the  sunshine,  watching  the  passing 
of  a  black  hail-storm  no  further  off  than  a  cable-length 
to  leeward.  And  now  I,  too,  stood  in  the  sunlight, 
gazing  at  a  northern  landscape  made  up  of  firs  and  birch 
trees,  green  fields  and  red  cattle,  little  brown  cottages 
with  old  women  on  the  thresholds,  knitting  socks  for 
father,  who  was  toiling  far  down  in  the  canton  of  Tessin; 
my  eyes  rested  on  potato  fields  and  lavender  bushes, 
dahlias  and  marigolds. 

The  sun  dried  my  hair  and  coat,  and  warmed  my 
shivering  limbs;  I  bared  my  head  before  the  glowing  orb, 
source  and  preserver  of  all  there  is,  completely  indifferent 
whether  I  was  worshipping  unquenchable  flames  of  burn- 
ing hydrogen,  or  the  not  yet  scientifically  acknowledged 
primordial  substance,  helium.  Was  it  not  the  All-Father, 
who  had  given  birth  to  the  Cosmos,  the  Almighty,  the 
Lord  of  life  and  death,  ice  and  heat,  summer  and  winter, 
dearth  and  plenty? 

My  eyes,  which  had  been  feasting  on  summer  joy  and 
green  fields,  plunged  into  the  gloom  of  the  abyss  whence 
I  had  climbed.  The  mantle  of  cold  and  darkness  which 
had  been  lying  on  the  surface  of  the  lake  was  cold  and 
dark  no  longer;  dazzling  clouds,  like  snowy,  sunlit  piles 
of  wool,  hid  from  my  gaze  the  twilight  and  the  polluted 
earth ;  above  them  rose  snow-clad  peaks,  glistening  and 
sparkling,  fashioned  of  condensed  silver  fog,  a  crystal- 
lised solution   of  air  and  sunlight,  drift-ice  on  a  sea  of 


286  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

newly  fallen  snow.  It  was  a  vision  of  transcendent  beauty, 
compared  to  which  the  cowbell-idyll  under  the  birch 
trees  was  commonplace. 

The  dead  silence  was  suddenly  broken  by  a  sound  from 
below,  where  melancholy  men  and  women  toiled  and 
trembled  in  the  grey  gloom.  It  was  a  splashing  sound 
which  approached  deliberately;  so  deliberately  that  my 
eyes  unconsciously  tried  to  follow  its  course  under  the 
cloud-cover.  It  sounded  like  a  millstream,  a  brook 
swollen  with  rain,  a  tidal  wave.  Then  a  scream  rent  the 
air,  loud  and  wild,  as  if  all  the  dwellers  in  the  four 
cantons  were  calling  for  help  against  Uri-Rotstock ;  it 
was  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  paddle-boat  which,  pene- 
trating the  layer  of  clouds,  gained  in  volume  in  the  pure 
air  and  was  caught  up  and  tossed  from  rock  to  rock  by 
the  redundant  echo  of  the  Hochfluh. 

It  was  noon!  Time  to  begin  my  descent  through  the 
fog  down  to  the  greyness,  the  darkness,  the  damp,  the 
dirt,  and  wait  for  another  three  weeks,  perhaps,  for 
another  glimpse  of  the  sun. 


VI 

After  the  New  Year  we  left  Switzerland  and  took  up 
our  abode  in  Germany;  we  had  decided  to  stay  for  a 
while  at  the  lovely  shores  of  the  Lake  of  Constance. 

In  Germany,  the  land  of  militarism,  where  the  patri- 
archate is  still  in  full  force,  Marie  felt  completely  out 
of  it.  No  one  would  listen  to  her  futile  talk  about 
women's  rights.  Here  young  girls  had  just  been  for- 
bidden to  attend  the  University  lectures ;  here  the  dowry 
of  a  woman  who  marries  an  officer  of  the  army  has  to 
be  deposited  with  the  War  Office;  here  all  government 
appointments  are  reserved  for  the  man,  the  breadwinner 
of  the  family. 

Marie  struggled  and  fought  as  if  she  had  been  caught 
in  a  trap.  On  her  first  attempt  to  hoodwink  me  she 
was  severely  taken  to  task  by  the  women.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  found  the  fair  sex  entirely  on  my  side; 
henceforth  she  had  to  play  second  fiddle.  The  friendly 
intercourse  with  the  officers  braced  me;  their  manners 
influenced  mine;  and  after  ten  years  of  spiritual  emascula- 
tion my  manhood  reasserted  itself. 

I  let  my  hair  grow  as  it  liked,  and  abolished  the  fringe 
on  which  Marie  had  insisted;  my  voice,  which  had  grown 
thin  from  everlastingly  speaking  in  soothing  tones  to 
a  woman,  regained  its  former  volume.  The  hollows  in 
my  cheeks  filled  out,  and  although  I  was  now  beginning 
my  fortieth  year  my  whole  physique  gained  in  strength 
and  vigour. 

I  was  friendly  with  all  the  women  in  the  house,  and 
soon  fell  into  the  habit  of  taking  a  very  active  part  in 

987 


288  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

the  conversation,  while  Marie,  poor,  unpopular  Marie, 
once  again  sat  in  silence. 

She  began  to  be  afraid  of  me.  One  morning,  for  the 
first  time  in  the  last  six  years  of  our  marriage,  she 
appeared  fully  dressed  in  my  bedroom  before  I  was  up. 
I  could  not  understand  this  sudden  move,  but  we  had  a 
stormy  scene,  during  which  she  admitted  that  she  was 
jealous  of  the  girl  who  came  into  my  room  every  morning 
to  light  the  fire  in  my  stove. 

"  And  I  do  detest  your  new  ways !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  hate  this  so-called  manliness,  and  loathe  you  when 
you  give  yourself  airs  !  " 

Well,  I  knew  that  it  had  always  been  the  page,  the 
lap-dog,  the  weakling,  "  her  child  "  that  she  loved.  The 
virago  never  loves  virility  in  her  husband,  however  much 
she  may  admire  it  elsewhere. 

I  became  more  and  more  popular  with  the  women.  I 
sought  their  society;  my  whole  nature  was  expanding  in 
the  friendly  warmth  which  they  emanated,  these  true 
women,  who  inspired  the  respectful  love,  the  genuine 
devotion  which  a  man  only  feels  for  a  womanly  woman. 

We  were  discussing  our  return  home.  But  again  my 
old  suspicions  tormented  me.  I  shrank  from  the  renewal 
of  old  relations  with  former  friends,  some  of  whom  might 
quite  conceivably  have  been  my  wife's  lovers.  To  put 
an  end  to  my  doubts,  I  determined  to  cross-examine  her, 
for  my  letters  to  friends  in  Sweden  had  been  so  much 
waste  of  paper.  I  had  been  unable  to  elicit  a  candid 
statement. 

Everybody  pitied  the  "mother."  No  one  cared 
whether  or  not  the  "  father "  would  be  ruined  by  the 
ridicule  which  threatened  to  befall  him. 

An  excellent  idea  occurred  to  me.  I  would  make  use 
of  the  resources   of  the  new  science  of  psychology  and 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  289 

thought-reading.  I  introduced  it  into  our  evening 
amusements,  as  if  it  were  a  game,  employing  the  methods 
of  Bishop  and  his  kind.  Marie  was  suspicious.  She 
charged  me  with  being  a  spiritualist;  laughingly  called 
me  a  superstitious  free-thinker;  overwhelmed  me  with 
abuse — in  fact,  used  every  means  in  her  power  to  divert 
my  attention  from  practices  the  danger  of  which  she 
apparently  anticipated.  I  pretended  to  give  in,  and 
dropped  hypnotism,  but  I  resolved  to  make  my  attack 
some  time  when  she  was  ofif  her  guard. 

The  opportunity  came  one  evening  when  we  were  sitting 
alone  in  the  dining-room,  facing  each  other.  I  gradu- 
ally led  the  conversation  to  gymnastics.  I  succeeded  in 
interesting  her  so  much  that  she  became  excited  and, 
compelled  either  by  my  will-power  or  the  association  of 
ideas  which  I  had  aroused  in  her  mind,  she  mentioned 
massage.  This  suggested  the  pain  caused  by  the  treat- 
ment, and  remembering  her  own  experience  in  this 
connection  she  exclaimed — 

"  Oh  yes,  the  treatment  is  certainly  painful — I  can  feel 
the  pain  now  when  I  think  of " 

She  paused.  She  bowed  her  head  to  hide  her  pallor; 
her  lips  moved  as  if  she  were  anxious  to  change  the 
subject;  her  eyelids  flickered.  A  terrible  silence  followed 
which  I  prolonged  as  much  as  possible.  This  was  the 
train  of  thought  which  I  had  set  in  motion  and  guided, 
full  steam  on,  in  the  intended  direction.  In  vain  she 
tried  to  put  on  the  brake.  The  abyss  lay  before  her; 
she  could  not  stop  the  engine.  With  a  superhuman  effort 
she  broke  from  the  grip  of  my  eyes  and  rushed  out  of 
the  room. 

The  blow  had  struck  home. 

She  returned  a  few  minutes  later;  her  face  had  lost  its 
strained  expression.  Under  pretence  of  demonstrating  to 
me  the  beneficial  effect  of  massage,  she  came  behind  my 


290  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

chair  and  stroked  my  head.  Unfortunately  the  little 
scene  was  acted  before  a  mirror.  A  furtive  glance  showed 
me  her  pale,  terrified  face,  her  troubled  eyes  which 
scrutinised  my  features    .     .    .    our  searching  glances  met. 

Contrary  to  her  habit  she  came  and  sat  on  my  knee,  put 
her  arms  round  me  lovingly  and  murmured  that  she  was 
very  sleepy. 

"  What  wrong  have  you  committed  to-day  that  you 
caress  me  like  this  ?  "  I  asked. 

She  hid  her  face  on  my  shoulder,  kissed  me  and  went 
out  of  the  room,  bidding  me  good-night. 

I  am  perfectly  well  aware  that  this  sort  of  evidence 
would  not  satisfy  a  jury,  but  it  was  sufficient  for  me, 
who  knew  her  so  well. 

And  to  my  thinking  the  evidence  was  strengthened  by 
the  fact  that  a  short  time  ago  my  brother-in-law  had 
forbidden  the  doctor  his  house,  because  the  latter  had 
made  advances  to  my  sister. 

I  was  therefore  determined  not  to  return  to  my  own 
country.  At  home  I  should  be  compelled  to  associate 
daily  with  men  whom  I  distrusted,  and  to  escape  the 
ridicule  which  inevitably  falls  to  the  share  of  the  duped 
husband,  I  fled  to  Vienna. 

Alone  in  my  hotel,  the  vision  of  the  wife  I  had 
worshipped  haunted  me.  Utterly  unable  to  work,  I 
beg;an  a  correspondence  with  her.  I  wrote  her  love-letters 
twice  a  day.  The  unknown  town  aflfected  me  like  a 
cemetery.  I  moved  through  the  thronging  crowd  like  a 
phantom.  But  after  a  while  my  imagination  began  to 
people  this  solitude.  I  invented  a  romantic  story  for  the 
sole  reason  of  introducing  Marie  into  this  dreary  desert, 
and  soon  life  was  pulsing  everywhere.  I  pictured  her  as 
a  famous  singer,  and  to  lend  my  dream  a  semblance  of 
reality  and  make  of  the  fine  city  a  more  convincing  back- 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  291 

ground  for  her,  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  director 
of  the  Conservatoire.  I,  who  detested  the  theatre,  visited 
the  opera  or  a  concert  every  night.  Everything  interested 
me  intensely,  because  I  reported  everything  ta  her.  No 
sooner  had  I  arrived  at  my  hotel  than  I  sat  down  and  gave 
her  a  minute  description  of  Miss  So-and-so's  perform- 
ance, drawing  comparisons  which  were  invariably  in  her 
own  favour. 

Her  spirit  pervaded  the  picture  galleries.  I  spent  an 
hour  before  the  Venus  of  Guido  Reni  in  the  Belvedere, 
because  she  was  so  like  my  beloved. 

In  the  end  my  longing  grew  so  irresistible  that  I 
packed  my  box  and  returned  home  as  fast  as  the  express 
could  carry  me.  Surely  I  was  bewitched;  there  was  no 
means  of  escape  from  her. 

I  had  a  royal  reception. 

My  love-letters  seemed  to  have  rekindled  Marie's  love. 
I  ran  up  the  little  garden  to  meet  her.  I  covered  her 
face  with  passionate  kisses.  I  took  her  little  head  between 
my  hands. 

"  Can  you  really  work  magic,  little  witch.''  " 

"What  do  you  mean?  Your  journey  was  not  an 
attempt  at  flight,  was  it.''  " 

"  It  was !  But  you  are  stronger  than  I  am.  ...  I 
throw  down  my  arms.     .     .     ." 

On  my  writing-table  lay  a  spray  of  red  roses. 

"  You  do  love  me  a  little?  " 

She  was  covered  with  confusion  like  a  young  girl — 
she  blushed  ...  it  was  all  over  with  me,  my  honour,  my 
efforts  to  break  the  chains  which  bound  me,  and  which 
I  longed  for  when  I  was  free. 

Six  months  went  by;  we  lived  in  a  wonderful  dream: 
we  chirruped  like  starlings,  we  kissed,  our  love  was 
endless.  We  played  duets  and  backgammon.  The  most 
beautiful  days  of  the  last  five  years  were  surpassed. 


«92  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

Spring  had  returned  in  the  autumn  of  our  lives !  And 
had  we  not  dreaded  the  approach  of  the  winter? 

I  was  fast  again  in  her  toils.  She  was  convinced  that 
the  love  philtre  which  she  had  given  me  to  drink  had 
intoxicated  me  afresh,  and  relapsed  into  her  former 
indifference.  She  neglected  her  appearance,  and  despite 
all  my  remonstrances  no  longer  took  the  trouble  to  make 
the  best  of  herself.  I  foresaw  that  the  result  would  be 
coldness  on  both  sides,  in  spite  of  ourselves.  Even  her 
preference  for  her  own  sex  reappeared,  more  dangerous 
and  more  pitiable,  for  this  time  she  made  love  to  young 
girls. 

One  evening  we  had  invited  the  commandant  and  his 
fourteen-year-old  daughter,  our  hostess  and  her  daughter, 
a  girl  of  fifteen,  and  a  third  girl  of  about  the  same  age 
to  a  quiet  little  dinner-party,  which  was  to  be  followed 
by  a  dance. 

Towards  midnight — to  this  day  I  grow  hot  when  I  think 
of  it — I  saw  that  Marie,  who  had  been  drinking  freely, 
had  gathered  the  young  girls  round  her  and,  looking  at 
them  with  lascivious  eyes,  was  kissing  them  on  the  lips. 

The  commandant  was  watching  the  scene  from  a  dark 
corner  of  the  room,  hardly  able  to  control  himself.  In 
imagination  I  saw  prison,  penal  servitude,  a  scandal  which 
we  could  never  live  down;  I  made  a  rush  at  the  group 
and  broke  it  up,  telling  the  girls  to  join  in  the 
dancing 

When  we  were  left  alone  I  took  Marie  to  task.  We 
argued  and  stormed  till  daylight.  Since  she  had  had 
more  wine  than  was  good  for  her,  she  lost  her  head  and 
confessed  things  which  I  had  never  even  dreamed  of. 

Beside  myself  with  anger,  I  repeated  all  my  indict- 
ments, all  my  suspicions,  and  added  a  new  charge,  in 
which  I  did  not  really  believe  myself. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  293 

"  And  this  mysterious  illness,  these  headaches  from 
which  I  suffer.    ,    .    ." 

"  What !     You  blame  me  for  that  too !  " 

I  had  not  meant  what  she  insinuated;  I  had  merely 
referred  to  the  symptoms  of  cyanide  poisoning  which  I 
had  observed  in  myself. 

All  of  a  sudden  a  reminiscence  flashed  into  my  mind; 
the  thought  of  something  which  at  the  time  had  seemed 
too  improbable  that  it  had  left  no  permanent  trace  in 
my  memory.     .     .     . 

My  suspicion  was  strengthened  when  I  remembered  a 
certain  epithet  used  in  an  anonymous  letter  which  I  had 
received  a  short  time  after  Marie's  divorce.  The  letter 
referred  to  her  as  "  the  prostitute  of  Soedertelje." 

What  did  it  mean.?  I  had  made  inquiries  which  had 
come  to  nothing.  Was  I  on  the  point  of  making  a  fresh 
discovery  ? 

When  the  Baron,  Marie's  first  husband,  made  her 
acquaintance  at  Soedertelje,  she  was  half  and  half  engaged 
to  a  young  officer,  a  man  with  admittedly  bad  health. 
Poor  Gustav  had  played  the  part  of  a  greenhorn.  That 
accoimted  for  the  warm  gratitude  which  she  felt  for  him 
even  after  the  divorce;  she  had  confessed  at  the  time  that 
he  had  delivered  her  from  dangers  .  .  .  what  dangers  she 
had  not  mentioned. 

But  "the  prostitute  of  Soedertelje"?  I  reflected  .  .  . 
the  retired  life  which  the  young  couple  led,  without 
friends,  without  society;  they  had  been  ostracised  by  the 
class  to  which  they  belonged. 

Had  Marie's  mother,  formerly  a  governess  of  middle- 
class  origin,  who  had  wheedled  Marie's  father  into  a 
marriage  with  her;  who  had  fled  to  Sweden  to  escape 
from  pressing  debts;  had  she,  the  widow  who  so  cleverly 
contrived  to  conceal  her  poverty,  stooped  to  sell  her 
daughter  when  they  were  living  at  Soedertelje? 


294  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

The  old  woman,  a  coquette  still  at  the  age  of  sixty, 
had  always  inspired  me  with  mingled  feelings  of  com- 
passion and  dislike;  mean,  pleasure-loving,  with  the 
manners  of  an  adventuress,  a  veritable  "  man-eater,"  she 
regarded  every  man  as  her  legitimate  prey.  She  had 
made  me  support  her  sister;  she  had  deceived  her  first 
son-in-law,  the  Baron,  with  the  story  of  a  dowry  swindled 
out  of  one  of  her  creditors. 

Poor  Marie!  Her  remorse,  her  unrest,  her  dark  moods 
were  rooted  in  that  shady  past.  In  putting  old  events  by 
the  side  of  new  ones  I  had  the  key  to  the  quarrels  between 
mother  and  daughter,  brutal  quarrels,  frequently  verging 
on  violence.  I  could  understand  Marie's  hitherto  incom- 
prehensible words,  "  I  could  kick  my  mother !  " 

Had  her  game  been  to  silence  the  old  woman?  Prob- 
ably; for  the  latter  had  threatened  to  ruin  our  lives  by 
confessing  "  everything." 

There  could  have  been  no  doubt  of  Marie's  dislike  for 
her  mother,  to  whom  the  Baron  frequently  referred  as 
"  that  old  blackguard,"  an  invective  which  he  justified 
with  the  half-truth  that  she  had  taught  her  daughter  all 
the  tricks  of  coquetry  to  enable  her  to  catch  a  husband. 

All  these  coincidents  strengthened  my  determination  to 
separate  from  her.  It  had  to  be!  There  was  no  alter- 
native. And  I  left  for  Copenhagen  to  make  inquiries  into 
the  past  of  the  woman  in  whose  keeping  I  had  confided 
my  honour. 

In  meeting  my  countrymen  after  several  years'  absence 
I  found  that  they  had  formed  very  definite  opinions  of 
me;  the  eager  exertions  of  Marie  and  her  friends  had 
borne  fruit.  She  was  a  holy  martyr;  I  was  a  madman, 
whose  lunacy  consisted  in  believing  himself  to  be  saddled 
with  an  unfaithful  wife. 

Make  inquiries?     It  was  like  beating  my  head  against 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  295 

a  stone  wall.  People  listened  to  what  I  had  to  say  with 
a  furtive  smile  and  stared  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  rare  animal. 
No  information  was  vouchsafed  to  me;  I  was  deserted  by 
every  one,  especially  by  those  who  secretly  yearned  for  my 
ruin,  so  that  they  might  rise  over  my  fallen  body. 

I  returned  to  my  prison.  Marie  met  me  with  evident 
misgivings;  I  learned  more  from  the  expression  of  her 
face  than  I  had  learned  during  the  whole  of  my  melan- 
choly journey. 

For  two  months  I  champed  upon  the  bit;  then  I  fled 
for  the  fourth  time,  in  the  height  of  summer,  this  time 
to  Switzerland.  But  the  chain  which  held  me  was  not  an 
iron  chain  which  I  might  have  been  able  to  break;  it  was 
rather  an  indiarubber  cable,  elastic  and  capable  of  infinite 
expansion.  The  stronger  the  tension,  the  more  irresistibly 
I  was  pulled  back  to  the  starting  point. 

Once  more  I  returned,  to  be  rewarded  with  open  con- 
tempt; she  was  sure  that  another  attempt  to  free  myself 
from  her  net  would  kill  me,  and  my  death  was  her  only 
hope. 

I  fell  ill,  severely  ill,  so  that  I  believed  myself  to  be 
dying;  I  made  up  my  mind  to  write  the  whole  story  of 
the  past.  I  could  see  plainly  now  that  I  had  been  in  the 
power  of  a  vampire.  I  only  wanted  to  live  long  enough 
to  cleanse  my  name  from  the  filth  with  which  she  had 
sullied  it.  I  wanted  to  live  long  enough  to  revenge  myself; 
but  first  of  all  I  must  have  proofs  of  her  infidelity. 

I  hated  her  now  with  a  hatred  more  fatal  than  indiffer- 
ence because  it  is  the  anthithesis  of  love.  I  hated  her 
because  I  loved  her. 

It  was  on  a  Sunday,  while  we  were  dining  in  the 
summer-arbour,  that  the  electric  fluid  which  had  gathered 
during  the  last  ten  years  discharged  itself.  I  cannot 
remember  my  actual  motive,  but  I  struck  her,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life.     I  struck  her  face  repeatedly,  and 


296  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

when  she  tried  to  defend  herself  I  seized  her  wrists  and 
forced  her  on  her  knees.  She  gave  a  terrified  scream. 
The  temporary  satisfaction  which  I  had  felt  at  my  action 
gave  way  to  dismay,  for  the  children,  frightened  to  death, 
cried  out  with  fear.  It  was  a  horrible  moment!  It  is 
a  crime,  a  most  unnatural  crime,  to  strike  a  woman,  a 
mother,  in  the  presence  of  her  children.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  the  sun  ought  to  hide  his  face ....  I  felt  sick 
to  death. 

And  yet  there  was  peace  in  my  soul,  like  the  calm  after 
a  storm,  a  satisfaction  such  as  is  only  derived  from  duty 
done.  I  regretted  my  action,  but  I  felt  no  remorse.  My 
deed  had  been  as  inevitable  as  cause  and  effect. 

In  the  evening  I  saw  her  walking  in  the  moonlit  garden. 
I  joined  her;  I  kissed  her.  She  did  not  object;  she  burst 
into  tears.  We  walked  for  a  few  minutes,  then  she  accom- 
panied me  to  my  room  and  stayed  with  me  until  midnight. 

How  strange  is  life!  In  the  afternoon  I  had  struck 
her.    At  night  she  held  me  in  her  arms  and  kissed  me. 

What  an  extraordinary  woman  she  was,  to  kiss  her 
executioner  with  willing  lips ! 

Why  had  I  not  known  it  before?  If  I  had  struck  her 
ten  years  ago  I  should  now  have  been  the  happiest  of 
husbands. 

Remember  this,  my  brothers,  if  ever  you  are  deceived 
by  a  woman! 

But  she  had  no  intention  of  foregoing  her  revenge. 
A  few  days  after  this  incident  she  came  into  my  room, 
began  telling  me  a  long,  rambling  story,  and  after  endless 
digressions  gave  me  to  imderstand  that  she  had  once,  only 
once,  been  violated;  it  had  happened,  she  said,  while  on 
her  theatrical  tour  in  Finland, 

It  was  true,  then ! 

She  implored  me  not  to  think  that  it  had  happened 
more  than  once;  not  to  suspect  her  of  having  had  a  lover. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  g97 

That  meant  several  times,  several  lovers. 

"  Then  it  is  true  that  you  have  deceived  me,  and  in 
order  to  deceive  the  world,  too,  you  have  invented  the 
myth  of  my  insanity.  To  hide  your  crime  more  com- 
pletely you  meant  to  torture  me  to  death.  You  are  a 
criminal.  I  have  no  longer  any  doubt  of  it.  I  shall 
divorce  you !  " 

She  threw  herself  on  her  knees,  weeping  bitterly,  and 
asking  me  to  forgive  her, 

"  I'll  forgive  you;  nevertheless  our  marriage  must  be 
annulled." 

On  the  following  day  she  was  very  quiet;  on  the  second 
day  she  had  regained  her  former  self-possession;  on  the 
third  she  behaved  in  every  respect  like  an  innocent  woman. 

Since  she  had  confessed  herself,  she  was  more  than 
innocent;  she  was  a  martyr  who  treated  me  with  insulting 
condescension. 

She  did  not  realise  the  consequences  of  a  crime  such 
as  she  had  committed,  and  therefore  she  did  not 
understand  my  dilemma.  If  I  continued  to  live  with 
her,  I  became  a  public  laughing-stock;  on  the  other 
hand,  to  leave  her  spelled  disaster  also;  my  life  was 
ruined. 

Ten  years  of  martyrdom  to  be  paid  for  with  a  few 
blows  and  a  day  of  tears.    Was  it  fair? 

For  the  last  time  I  left  my  home,  secretly,  for  I  had 
not  the  heart  to  say  good-bye  to  the  children. 

On  a  beautiful  Sunday  afternoon  I  went  on  board  a 
steamer  bound  for  Constance.  I  had  decided  to  visit  my 
friends  in  France,  and  there  to  write  the  story  of  this 
woman,  the  true  representative  of  the  age  of  the  unsexed. 

At  the  last  moment  Marie  appeared  on  the  landing- 
stage,  tear-stained,  excited,  feverish,  yet  pretty  enough 
to   turn    the   head   of   any    man.      But    I    remained   cold, 


«98  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

callous,  silent,  and  received  her  treacherous  kiss  without 
returning  it. 

"  Say  at  least  that  we  are  parting  friends !  " 

"  Enemies  for  the  short  time  which  remains  for  me 
on  earth !  " 

We  parted. 

The  steamer  started.  I  watched  her  walking  along  the 
quay,  trying  to  draw  me  back  with  the  magic  of  her  eyes 
which  had  held  me  under  their  spell  for  so  many  years. 
She  came  and  went  like  a  forsaken  little  dog.  I  waited 
for  the  moment  when  she  would  jump  into  the  water; 
I  should  jump  after  her,  and  we  should  drown  together. 
But  she  turned  away  and  disappeared  in  a  little  side-street, 
leaving  me  with  a  last  impression  of  her  bewitching  figure, 
her  little  feet,  which  I  had  allowed  to  trample  on  me 
for  ten  years  without  a  murmur.  Only  in  my  writings 
perhaps  I  had  occasionally  given  vent  to  my  feelings,  but 
even  there  I  had  always  tried  to  mislead  the  reader  by 
concealing  her  real  crimes. 

To  steel  my  heart  against  grief  and  regret,  I  went  at 
once  into  the  saloon.  I  sat  down  to  dinner,  but  an  aching 
lump  in  my  throat  compelled  me  to  rise,  and  I  climbed 
again  on  deck. 

I  watched  the  green  hill  gliding  past,  and  thought  of 
the  little  white  cottage  with  the  green  shutters  which 
crowned  it.  My  children  lived  there,  but  the  home 
was  desolate,  they  were  without  protection,  without 
means ....  An  icy  pang  shot  through  my  heart. 

I  was  like  the  cocoon  of  the  silkworm  when  the  great 
steam-engine;  slowly  reels  off  the  shining  thread.  At  every 
stroke  of  the  piston  I  grew  thinner,  and  as  the  thread 
lengthened  the  cold  which  chilled  me  increased. 

I  was  like  an  embryo  prematurely  detached  from  the 
umbilical  cord.  What  a  complete  and  living  organism  is 
the  family !     I  had  thought  so  at  that  first  divorce,  from 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  299 

which  I  had  recoiled  conscience-stricken.  But  she,  the 
adulteress,   the   murderess,   had    remained   unmoved. 

At  Constance  I  caught  the  train  for  Basle.  What  a 
wretched  Sunday  afternoon ! 

I  prayed  to  God,  if  God  there  was,  to  preserve  even 
my  bitterest  foes  from  such  agony. 

At  Basle  I  was  overwhelmed  with  an  irresistible  desire 
to  revisit  all  those  places  in  Switzerland  where  we  had 
stayed  together,  to  gladden  my  sad  heart  with  memories 
of  happy  hours  spent  with  her  and  the  children. 

I  stayed  for  a  week  in  Geneva  and  some  days  at  Ouchy, 
hunted  by  my  misery  from  hotel  to  hotel,  without  peace 
or  rest,  like  a  lost  soul,  like  the  wandering  Jew.  I  spent 
my  nights  in  tears,  haunted  by  the  little  figures  of  my 
beloved  children;  I  visited  the  places  they  had  visited; 
I  fed  "  their  "  seagulls  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  a  poor, 
restless  ghost,  a  miserable  phantom. 

Every  morning  I  expected  a  letter  from  Marie,  but  no 
letter  came.  She  was  too  clever  to  furnish  her  opponent 
with  written  evidence.  I  wrote  to  her  several  times  a  day, 
love-letters,  forgiving  her  for  all  her  crimes — but  I  never 
posted  them. 

Doubtless,  my  judges,  if  I  had  been  destined  to  end 
my  days  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  my  fate  would  have  come 
upon  me  in  those  hours  of  keenest  agony  and  bitterest 
sorrow. 

My  power  of  endurance  was  exhausted;  I  wondered 
whether  Marie's  confession  had  not  been  a  ruse,  so  as  to 
get  rid  of  me  and  begin  life  all  over  again  with  her 
unknown  lover,  or,  perhaps,  to  live  with  her  Danish 
friend.  I  saw  my  children  in  the  hands  of  a  "  stepfather  " 
or  the  clutches  of  a  "  stepmother  " ;  Marie  would  be  quite 
rich  with  the  proceeds  of  my  collected  works;  she  would 
perhaps  write  the  story  of  my  life  as  seen  through  the  eyes 
of  the  unnatural  woman  who  had  come  between  us.     The 


800  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

instinct  of  self-preservation  stirred  within  me;  I  con- 
ceived a  cunning  plan.  The  separation  from  my  family 
paralysed  me  mentally;  I  decided  to  return  to  them  and 
stay  with  them  until  I  had  written  the  story  of  Marie's 
crimes.  In  this  way  she  would  become  the  unconscious 
tool  of  my  revenge,  which  I  could  throw  away  when  I  had 
no  further  use  for  it. 

With  this  object  in  view  I  sent  her  a  telegram,  business- 
like, free  from  all  sentimentality;  I  informed  her  that  my 
petition  for  a  divorce  had  been  refused;  pretended  that  I 
required  a  power  of  attorney  from  her,  and  suggested  an 
interview  at  Romanshorn,  on  this  side  of  the  Lake  of 
Constance. 

I  despatched  the  telegram  with  a  sense  of  relief.  On 
the  following  day  I  took  the  train  and  in  due  time  arrived 
at  the  appointed  place.  The  week  of  suffering  was  a  thing 
of  the  past;  my  heart  was  beating  normally,  my  eyes  shone 
with  added  lustre;  I  drew  a  deep  breath  at  the  sight  of 
the  hills  on  the  opposite  shore,  where  my  children  lived. 
The  steamer  approached  the  landing  stage;  my  eyes 
searched  for  Marie. 

Presently  I  caught  sight  of  her  on  the  deck,  her  face 
woebegone,  ten  years  older.  The  sight  of  her,  suddenly 
grown  old,  wrung  my  heart.  She  walked  with  dragging 
footsteps,  her  eyelids  were  red  with  weeping,  her  cheeks 
hollow  and  drooping. 

At  that  moment  all  feeling  of  hatred  and  disgust  was 
swamped  by  pity.  I  felt  a  strong  temptation  to  take  her 
into  my  arms,  but  I  pulled  myself  together,  drew  myself 
up  and  assumed  the  devil-may-care  expression  of  a  young 
blood  who  had  come  to  a  tryst.  When  I  looked  at  her 
more  closely  I  discovered  in  her  a  strange  resemblance  to 
her  Danish  friend;  the  likeness  was  really  extraordinary; 
she  had   the   same    expression,  the   same   pose,   the   same 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  301 

gestures,  the  same  way  of  wearing  her  hair.  Had  she 
played  me  this  last  trick?  Had  she  come  to  me  straight 
from  her  "  friend  "  ? 

Warned  by  these  details,  I  recapitulated  the  part  I 
meant  to  play.  While  I  accompanied  her  to  the  hotel  she 
was  depressed  and  ill  at  ease,  but  she  kept  her  self- 
possession.  She  questioned  me  very  intelligently  on  the 
projected  divorce  proceedings,  and  when  she  found  that  I 
exhibited  no  trace  of  grief  or  emotion,  she  dropped  her 
woe-begone  aspect  and  began  to  treat  me,  as  far  as  she 
dared,  with  a  certain  condescension. 

During  the  interview  she  reminded  me  so  much  of  her 
friend  that  I  was  tempted  to  ask  for  news  of  the  lady. 
I  was  especially  struck  by  a  very  tragic  pose,  a  favourite 
one  of  her  friend's,  a  pose  which  was  accompanied  by  a 
certain  gesture  of  the  hand  which  rested  on  the  table  .  .  . 
ugh! 

I  rang  for  wine.  She  drank  greedily  and  became 
sentimental. 

I  took  the  opportunity  to  ask  after  the  little  ones. 
She  burst  into  tears ;  she  said  that  she  had  suffered  greatly 
during  the  past  week;  from  morning  till  night  the  children 
had  worried  her  with  questions  about  their  father;  she  did 
not  see  how  they  could  get  on  without  me. 

All  at  once  she  noticed  the  absence  of  my  wedding- 
ring;  she  became  agitated. 

"  Your  wedding-ring.^  "  she  gasped  breathlessly. 

"  I  sold  it  in  Geneva.  There's  no  need  to  ask  what  I 
did  with  the  money." 

She  grew  pale. 

"  Then  we  are  quits.     Shall  we  make  a  fresh  start?  " 

"  Is  that  what  you  call  fair  play?  You  committed  an 
act  fraught  with  tragic  consequences  for  the  whole 
family,  for  through  it  I  am  compelled  to  doubt  the 
legitimacy   of   my   children.      You   are    guilty   of   having 


80«  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

tampered  with  the  lineage  of  a  family.  You  have  dis- 
honoured four  people:  your  three  children  of  doubtful, 
paternity  and  your  husband,  whom  your  infidelity  has 
made  a  public  laughing-stock.  What,  on  the  other  hand, 
are  the  consequences  of  my  act?  " 

She  wept.  I  remained  firm.  I  said  that  the  divorce 
proceedings  must  go  on,  that  I  should  adopt  the  children 
— in  the  meantime  she  could  remain  in  my  house,  if  she 
liked.  Would  it  not  be  the  free  life  she  had  alwaj^s  been 
dreaming  of?     She  had  always  cursed  matrimony. 

She  reflected  for  a  moment.  My  proposal  did  not 
please  her. 

"  I  remember  j'ou  saying  you  would  like  the  position 
of  a  governess  in  the  house  of  a  widower.  Here's  the 
widower  for  you !  " 

"  Give  me  time.  .  .  .  We  shall  see.  .  .  .  But 
in  the  meantime  do  you  intend  to  live  with  us  ?  " 

"  If  you  ask  me  to." 

"  We  are  waiting  for  you." 

And  for  the  sixth  time  I  returned  to  my  family,  but 
this  time  firmly  resolved  to  use  the  remaining  weeks  to 
finish  my  story.     .     .     . 


EPILOGUE 

Seated  at  my  writing-table,  pen  in  hand,  I  fainted;  a 
feverish  attack  prostrated  me.  This  very  inopportune 
attack  frightened  me,  for  I  had  not  been  seriously  ill  for 
fifteen  years.  It  was  not  fear  of  death,  oh  no.  Death 
held  no  terrors  for  me;  but  I  was  thirty-nine  years  old 
and  at  the  end  of  a  turbulent  career,  my  last  word  still 
unsaid,  the  promises  of  my  youth  only  partly  fulfilled, 
pregnant  with  plans  for  the  future.  This  sudden  cutting 
of  the  knot  was  far  from  pleasing  me.  For  the  la»t  four 
years  I  had  lived  with  my  family  in  half- voluntary  exile ; 
I  was  at  the  end  of  my  resources,  and  had  settled  down  in 
a  small  town  in  Bavaria;  I  had  come  into  conflict  with 
the  law,  for  one  of  my  books  had  been  confiscated,  and 
I  had  been  banished  from  my  own  country.  I  had  but 
one  desire  left  when  I  was  thrown  on  my  sick-bed — the 
desire  for  revenge. 

A  struggle  arose  within  me;  I  had  not  sufficient  strength 
left  in  me  to  call  for  help.  The  fever  shook  me  as  one 
shakes  a  feather  bed ;  it  seized  me  by  the  throat  and  throt- 
tled me ;  it  put  its  foot  on  my  breast  and  scorched  my  brain, 
so  that  my  eyes  started  from  their  sockets.  I  was  alone 
with  Death,  who  had  crept  in  by  stealth  and  was  attack- 
ing me. 

But  I  was  unwilling  to  die;  I  resisted,  and  an  obstinate 
fight  began.  The  tension  of  my  nerves  relaxed,  the  blood 
coursed  through  my  veins.  My  brain  twitched  like  a 
polypus  that  has  been  thrown  into  vinegar.  But  before 
long   I    realised   that   I   must   succumb  in   this   dance   of 

303 


804  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

death.  I  relinquished  my  hold,  fell  backwards  and  sub- 
mitted to  the  fatal  embrace  of  the  dread  monster. 

Immediately  an  indescribable  calm  came  over  me,  a 
voluptuous  weakness  composed  my  limbs,  and  perfect 
peace  soothed  body  and  soul,  which  had  lacked  all  whole- 
some recreation  during  so  many  years  of  toil. 

I  fervently  desired  that  it  really  should  be  the  end. 
Slowly  all  will  to  live  ebbed  away.  I  ceased  to  observe, 
to  feel,  to  think.  I  became  unconscious,  and  a  delicious 
sensation  of  blankness  filled  the  void  created  by  the  cessa- 
tion of  the  racking  pain,  the  tormenting  thoughts,  the 
secret  terrors. 

When  I  regained  consciousness  I  found  my  wife  sitting 
by  my  bedside  and  gazing  at  me  with  terrified  eyes. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  dear  ?  "  she  said. 

"Nothing;  I  am  ill,"  I  replied.  "And  there  are  times 
when  illness  is  welcome." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     You  are  j  esting !  " 

"  No,  it  is  the  end  at  last.     ...     anyhow,  I  hope  it  is." 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  you  should  leave  us  in  these 
straits !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  is  to  become  of  us  in  a 
strange  country,  without  friends,  without  means }  " 

"  There  is  my  life  insurance,"  I  said,  attempting  to  con- 
sole her.  "  I  know  it  isn't  much,  but  it  is  enough  to  take 
you  home." 

She  had  not  thought  of  this,  and  she  looked  a  little 
reassured  as  she  continued — 

"  But  you  cannot  lie  here  like  this !  I  shall  send  for 
a  doctor." 

"  No,  I  won't  have  a  doctor !  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because — I  won't!  " 

The  glances  which  we  exchanged  spoke  volumes. 

"  I  want  to  die,"  I  said,  anxious  to  put  an  end  to  our 
conversation.     "  I  am  sick  of  life;  the  past  is  a  tangled 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  305 

skein  which  I  cannot  unravel.  It  is  time  that  my  eyes 
closed  for  ever — that  the  curtain  fell !  " 

She  remained  unmoved. 

"Your  old  suspicion  ...  is  it  still  alive,  then.>" 
she  asked. 

"  Yes,  still  alive.  Drive  away  the  spectre,  you  alone 
can  do  it." 

She  assumed  her  favourite  part  of  little  mother,  and 
gently  laid  her  soft  hand  on  my  burning  forehead. 

"  Does  that  relieve  you?  " 

"Yes.     ..." 

It  was  a  fact.  The  mere  touch  of  that  light  hand 
which  rested  so  heavily  on  my  life  exorcised  the 
evil  spirit,  the  secret  trouble  which  would  not  let  me 
rest. 

Another  and  more  violent  attack  of  fever  followed. 
My  wife  rose  to  make  me  some  elder  tea. 

Left  by  myself  I  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  out  through 
the  window  opposite.  It  was  a  large  window  in  the  shape 
of  a  triptychon,  framed  by  wild  vine;  I  saw  a  part  of 
the  landscape  surrounded  by  green  leaves;  in  the  fore- 
ground the  beautiful  scarlet  fruit  of  a  quince  tree  rocked 
gently  among  the  dark  green  foliage;  apple  trees,  a  little 
further  off,  studded  the  green  grass;  still  further  away 
the  steeple  of  a  small  church  rose  into  the  radiant  air, 
behind  it  a  blue  spot,  the  Lake  of  Constance,  was  visible, 
and  far  in  the  background  the  Tyrol  Alps. 

We  were  in  the  height  of  summer,  and,  illuminated 
by  the  slanting  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun,  the  whole  scene 
formed  a  charming  picture. 

From  below  rose  the  twittering  of  the  starlings  which 
sat  on  the  vine-props  in  the  vineyards,  the  chirping  of 
the  young  chickens,  the  strident  note  of  the  crickets,  the 
tinkling  cowbells,  clear  as  crystal.  The  loud  laughter  of 
my   children,   the   directing  voice  of   my   wife,   who   was 


306  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

talking  to  the  gardener's  wife  about  my  illness,  mingled 
with  these  gay  sounds  of  country  life. 

And  as  I  gazed  and  listened  life  seemed  good  to  me, 
death  to  be  shunned.  I  had  too  many  duties  to  perform, 
too  many  debts  to  pay.  My  conscience  tortured  me,  I 
felt  an  overpowering  need  to  confess  myself,  to  ask  all 
men's  forgiveness  for  the  wrongs  I  had  committed,  to 
humiliate  myself  before  some  one.  I  felt  guilty,  stricken 
with  remorse,  I  did  not  know  for  what  secret  crime;  I 
was  burning  with  the  desire  to  relieve  my  conscience  by 
a  full  confession  of  my  fancied  culpability. 

During  this  attack  of  weakness,  the  result  of  a  sort  of 
innate  despondency,  my  wife  returned  carrying  a  cup  in 
her  hand;  alluding  to  a  slight  attack  of  persecutional 
mania  from  which  I  had  once  suflFered,  she  tasted  the  con- 
tents before  offering  it  to  me. 

"  You  may  drink  without  fear,"  she  said  smilingly,  "  it 
contains  no  p>oison." 

I  felt  ashamed.  I  did  not  know  what  to  say.  And  to 
make  amends  for  my  suspicion  I  emptied  the  cup  at  one 
draught. 

The  somniferous  elder  tea,  the  fragrance  of  which 
recalled  in  me  reminiscences  of  my  own  country  where 
the  mystic  shrub  is  held  sacred  by  the  people,  made  me 
feel  so  sentimental  that  I  there  and  then  gave  expression 
to  my  remorse. 

"  Listen  to  me  carefully,"  I  said,  "  for  I  believe  that 
my  days  are  numbered.  I  confess  that  I  have  always 
lived  a  life  of  utter  selfishness.  I  have  sacrificed  your 
theatrical  career  to  my  literary  ambition.  ...  I  will  tell 
you  everything  now     .     .     .     only  forgive  me.     .     .     ." 

She  tried  to  calm  me,  but  I  interrupted  her  and  con- 
tinued— 

"  In  compliance  with  your  wishes  we  married  under  the 
dotal  system.     In  spite  of  it,  however,  I  have  wasted  your 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  307 

dowry  to  cover  sums  which  I  had  recklessly  guaranteed. 
My  greatest  grief  now  is  the  fact  that  you  cannot  touch 
the  proceeds  of  my  works.  Send  for  a  notary  at  once, 
so  that  I  can  settle  on  you  all  my  nominal  or  real  prop- 
erty. .  .  .  Above  everything,  promise  that  you  will 
return  to  the  stage  which  you  gave  up  to  please  me." 

She  refused  to  listen  any  further,  treated  my  confession 
as  a  joke,  advised  me  to  go  to  sleep  and  rest,  and  assured 
me  that  everything  would  come  right,  and  that  I  was  not 
on  the  point  of  death. 

I  seized  her  hand,  exhausted.  I  begged  her  to  stay 
with  me  until  I  had  fallen  asleep.  Grasping  her  little 
hand  more  firmly,  I  again  implored  her  to  forgive  me  for 
all  the  wrong  I  had  done  her.  A  delicious  drowsiness  stole 
over  me  and  closed  my  tired  eyelids.  Under  the  radia- 
tions of  her  shining  eyes,  which  expressed  infinite  tender- 
ness, I  felt  as  if  I  were  melting  away  as  ice  melts  in  the 
rays  of  the  sun.  Her  cool  lips,  touching  my  forehead, 
seemed  to  press  a  seal  on  it,  and  I  was  plunged  into  the 
depths  of  ineffable  bliss. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  I  awoke  from  my  stupor. 
The  rays  of  the  sun  fell  on  a  Utopian  landscape.  To 
judge  from  the  matutinal  sounds  which  rose  from  below,  it 
must  have  been  above  five  o'clock.  I  had  slept  soundly 
during  the  whole  night  without  dreaming  or  waking  up. 
On  the  little  table  by  my  bedside  stood  the  cup  which  had 
contained  the  elder-tea;  the  chair  on  which  my  wife  had 
been  sitting  when  I  fell  asleep  was  still  in  its  place.  I 
was  covered  with  her  cloak;  the  soft  hairs  of  the  fox  skins 
with  which  it  was  lined  tickled  my  chin. 

My  brain  felt  as  refreshed  and  rested  as  if  I  had  slept 
for  the  first  time  in  ten  years.  I  collected  my  thoughts, 
which  had  been  rushing  hither  and  thither  in  wild  dis- 
order, and  with  this  powerful,  well-drilled  and  disciplined 


808  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

army  I  prepared  to  meet  those  attacks  of  morbid  remorse 
which  frequently  accompany  physical  weakness. 

Looming  large,  filling  my  mind  completely,  were  the 
two  ugly  blots  which,  under  guise  of  a  confession,  I  had 
revealed  to  my  wife  on  the  previous  day;  the  two  dark 
blots  which  had  spoiled  my  life  for  so  many  years. 

I  resolved  to  re-examine  them  at  once,  to  dissect  those 
two  "  facts  "  which  up  to  now  I  had  allowed  to  pass  un- 
challenged, for  I  had  a  vague  presentiment  that  they  were 
unsound. 

"  Let  me  see,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  what  have  I  done 
that  I  should  look  upon  myself  as  a  selfish  coward,  who 
has  sacrificed  the  artistic  career  of  his  wife  to  his  ambi- 
tion.^    Let  me  see  what  really  happened.       .     .     ." 

At  the  time  of  our  betrothal  she  was  playing  very 
small  parts.  Her  position  in  the  artistic  world  had  sunk 
to  a  very  modest  one,  once  her  want  of  talent,  character 
and  originality  had  made  her  second  appearance  in  public 
a  fiasco.  She  lacked  all  the  essentials  which  go  to  make 
a  successful  actress.  On  the  day  before  our  wedding  she 
was  playing  the  part  of  a  society  woman  in  a  very  com- 
monplace play;  she  had  only  a  dozen  words  to  speak. 

For  how  many  tears,  how  much  misery  was  our  mar- 
riage made  responsible !  It  robbed  the  actress  of  all 
charm,  and  yet  she  had  been  so  fascinating  as  Baroness, 
divorced  from  her  husband  that  she  might  devote  her  life 
entirely  to  art. 

It  was  true,  I  was  to  blame  for  this  deterioration, 
which,  after  two  years'  weeping  over  steadily  shrinking 
parts,  resulted  in  her  leaving  the  stage. 

At  the  very  moment  when  her  engagement  came  to  an 
end  I  had  a  success,  an  undoubted  success,  as  a  novelist. 
I  had  already  conquered  the  stage  with  small,  unimportant 
plays.     Now  I  was  burning  to  write  a  play  which  would 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  309 

create  a  sensation;  it  should  be  one  of  those  spectacular 
plays  which  delight  audiences;  my  purpose,  of  course, 
was  to  help  my  wife  to  a  re-engagement.  It  was  a  repug- 
nant task,  for  one  of  my  most  cherished  dreams  was  the 
reform  of  the  drama.  In  writing  my,  new  play  I  sacrificed 
my  literary  faith.  But  I  meant  to  force  my  wife  on  a 
hostile  public,  throw  her  at  their  heads  with  all  the  means 
in  my  power,  move  heaven  and  earth  to  make  her  popular. 
All  my  efforts  were  in  vain.  The  public  would  have  none 
of  the  divorced  wife  who  had  married  a  second  time;  the 
manager  hastened  to  cancel  a  contract  which  brought  him 
no  advantage. 

"  Well,  was  that  my  fault.''  "  I  asked  myself,  volup- 
tuously stretching  my  limbs,  well  satisfied  with  the  result 
of  this  first  self-examination.  Was  there  a  greater 
blessing  than  a  good  conscience.'' 

With  a  lighter  heart  I  continued  my  musing — 

A  miserable  year  passed,  was  wept  away,  despite  the 
happiness.it  brought  us  in  the  birth  of  a  little  girl. 

And  all  of  a  sudden  my  wife  had  another  attack  of 
stage  mania,  more  violent  than  the  previous  one.  We 
besieged  the  agencies,  stormed  the  managerial  offices, 
advertised  ourselves  hugely — but  everywhere  we  failed,  all 
doors  were  closed  to  us,  everybody  threw  cold  water  on 
our  schemes. 

Disillusioned  by  the  failure  of  my  drama,  and  on  the 
point  of  making  a  name  in  science,  I  had  sworn  never 
again  to  write  a  play  round  an  actress,  more  especially  as 
this  sort  of  work  had  no  attraction  for  me.  In  addition, 
I  was  little  disposed  to  break  up  our  home  merely  to 
satisfy  a  passing  whim  of  my  wife's,  and  therefore  I 
resigned  myself  to  bearing  my  share  of  the  incurable 
sorrow. 

But  after  a  time  I  found  the  task  beyond  my  strength. 
I  made  use  of  my  connections  with  a  theatre  in  Finland, 


310  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

and,  thanks  to  my  efforts,  my  wife  was  engaged  for  a 
number  of  performances. 

I  had  made  a  rod  for  my  own  back.  For  a  whole 
month  I  was  widower,  bachelor,  head  of  the  family, 
housekeeper.  In  compensation  my  wife,  on  her  return, 
brought  home  with  her  two  large  packing-cases  full  of 
wreaths  and  bouquets. 

But  she  was  so  happy,  so  young  and  so  charming,  that 
I  took  at  once  the  necessary  steps  to  secure  a  fresh 
engagement  for  her.  I  knew  that  by  doing  this  I  was 
running  the  risk  of  having  to  leave  my  country,  my 
friends,  my  position,  my  publisher — and  for  what?  For 
a  woman's  whim.  .  .  .  But  let  that  pass !  Either  a  man 
is  in  love  or  he  isn't.  .  .  . 

Fortunately  for  me,  my  correspondent  had  no  room  in 
his  company  for  an  actress  without  a  repertoire. 

Was  that  my  fault  .^  At  the  thought  of  it  I  literally 
rolled  over  in  my  bed  with  pleasure.  What  a  good  thing 
an  occasional  little  self-examination  is !  It  unburdens  the 
heart  ...  it  rejuvenated  me. 

But  to  proceed.  Children  were  born  to  us  at  short 
intervals.  One — two — three.  But  again  and  again  her 
yearning  for  the  stage  returned.  One  ought  to  persevere! 
A  new  theatre  was  being  opened.  Why  not  offer  the 
manager  a  new  play  with  a  good  part  for  the  leading 
actress,  a  sensational  play,  dealing  with  the  "  woman 
question  "  which  loomed  so  large  at  the  time  ? 

No  sooner  thought  than  done.  For,  as  I  have  already 
said,  either  a  man  is  in  love,  or  he  isn't. 

The  play  was  produced.  It  contained  a  splendid  part 
for  the  leading  actress,  magnificent  dresses  (of  course),  a 
cradle,  much  moonshine,  a  villain;  an  abject  husband  in 
love  with  his  wife  (myself),  a  wife  about  to  become 
a  mother  (a  stage  novelty),  the  interior  of  a  convent — and 
«o  on. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  311 

The  actress  had  an  extraordinary  success,  but  from  the 
literary  point  of  view  the  play  was  a  failure,  an  awful 
failure    .    .    .       alas ! 

She  was  saved.  I  was  lost,  ruined.  But  in  spite  of 
everything,  in  spite  of  the  supper  which  we  gave  to  the 
manager  at  a  hundred  crowns  per  head;  in  spite  of  a  fine 
of  fifty  crowns  which  we  had  to  pay  for  illegal  cheering, 
late  at  night  before  the  agent's  office — in  spite  of  all  our 
efforts,  no  engagement  was  offered  to  her.  It  was  not  my 
fault.  I  was  blameless  in  the  matter.  I  was  the  martyr, 
the  victim.  Nevertheless,  in  the  eyes  of  her  sex  I  hence- 
forth was  a  ruffian  who  had  ruined  his  wife's  career.  For 
years  I  had  suffered  remorse  on  this  account,  remorse  so 
bitter  that  it  poisoned  my  days  and  robbed  my  nights  of 
peace. 

How  often  had  the  reproach  been  publicly  flung  into 
my  face !  It  was  always  I  who  was  guilty !  .  .  .  That 
things  came  about  in  quite  a  different  way,  who  cared? 
.  .  .  One  career  had  been  ruined,  that  I  admit  .  .  . 
but  which,  and  by  whom? 

A  horrible  thought  came  into  my  mind;  the  idea  that 
posterity  might  blame  me  for  this  ruined  career  seemed  to 
me  no  laughing  matter,  for  I  was  defenceless  and  without 
a  friend  capable  of  stating  the  facts  undisguised  and  un- 
misrepresented. 

There  remained  the  spending  of  her  dowry. 

I  had  once  been  made  the  subject  of  a  paragraph 
entitled :  "  A  squanderer  of  his  wife's  fortune."  I  also, 
on  another  occasion,  had  been  charged  with  living  on  my 
wife's  income,  a  charge  which  had  made  me  put  six 
cartridges  into  my  revolver. 

Let  us  examine  this  charge  also,  since  an  investigation 
has  become  desirable,  and  after  due  examination  let  us 
pronounce  sentence. 


312  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

My  wife's  dowry  consisted  of  ten  thousand  crowns  in 
doubtful  shares;  I  had  raised  a  mortgage  on  these  shares 
with  a  bank  of  mortgages,  amounting  to  fifty  per  cent 
of  their  face  value.  Like  a  bolt  from  the  blue  the  general 
smash  came.  The  shares  were  so  much  waste-paper,  for 
we  had  omitted  to  sell  them  at  the  right  moment.  I  was 
consequently  compelled  to  pay  the  full  amount  of  my 
mortgage:  fifty  per  cent  of  the  face  value.  Later  on 
my  wife  received  twenty-five  per  cent  of  her  claim,  this 
being  the  proportion  which  the  creditors  received  after 
the  bank's  failure. 

How  much  did  I  squander? 

Not  one  penny,  in  my  opinion.  The  holder  of  the 
shares  received  the  actual  value  of  her  unsaleable  invest- 
ments which  my  personal  guarantee  had  increased  by 
twenty-five  per  cent. 

Truly  I  was  as  innocent  in  this  connection  as  in  the 
other. 

And  the  anguish,  the  despair  which  had  more  than 
once  driven  me  to  the  verge  of  suicide!  The  suspicion, 
the  old  distrust,  the  cruel  doubts,  began  to  torture  me 
afresh.  The  thought  that  I  nearly  died  as  a  scoundrel 
almost  drove  me  mad.  Worn  out  with  care,  overwhelmed 
with  work,  I  had  never  had  time  to  pay  much  attention 
to  the  dark  innuendoes,  the  veiled  allusions.  And  while 
I,  completely  absorbed  in  my  daily  toU,  lived  unsuspect- 
ingly from  day  to  day,  slanderous  rumours  had  been 
started,  which  became  more  and  more  insistent  and 
definite,  although  they  had  no  other  foundation  than  the 
talk  of  the  envious  and  the  idle  gossip  of  the  cafes.  And 
I,  fool  that  I  was,  believed  everybody,  doubted  no  one 
but  myself.     Ah !     .     .     . 

Was  I  jeally  never  insane,  never  ill,  no  degenerate? 
Was  I  merely  fooled  by  a  trickster  whom  I  worshipped, 
whose  little  embroidery  scissors  had  cut  off  Samson's  locks 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  313 

when  he  laid  his  weary  head  on  the  pillow,  worn  out  by 
heavy  toil,  exhausted  by  care  and  anxiety  on  her  account 
and  the  children's?  Trustful,  unsuspicious,  I  had  lost 
my  honour,  my  manhood,  the  will  to  live,  my  intellect, 
my  five  senses,  and  alas !  much  more  even,  in  this  ten 
years'  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  sorceress. 

Was  it  possible — the  thought  filled  me  with  shame — 
that  a  crime  had  been  committed  in  these  fogs  in  which  I 
had  lived  for  years  like  a  phantom?  An  unconscious  little 
crime,  caused  by  a  vague  desire  for  power,  by  a  woman's 
secret  wish  to  get  the  better  of  the  man  in  the  duel  called 
matrimony  ? 

Doubtless  I  had  been  a  fool!  Seduced  by  a  married 
woman;  compelled  to  marry  her  to  save  her  honour  and 
her  theatrical  career;  married  under  the  dotal  system  and 
the  condition  that  each  should  contribute  half  of  the 
expenses,  I  was  ruined  after  ten  years,  plundered,  for  I 
had  borne  the  financial  burden  on  my  own  shoulders 
entirely. 

At  this  very  moment  when  my  wife  denounced  me  as 
a  spendthrift,  incapable  of  providing  the  necessities  of 
life;  when  she  represented  me  as  the  squanderer  of  her 
so-called  fortune;  at  this  very  moment  she  owed  me  forty 
thousand  crowns,  her  share  of  the  expenses,  according  to 
the  verbal  agreement  made  on  our  wedding  day. 

She  was  my  debtor! 

Determined  to  settle  all  accounts  once  and  for  ever, 
I  jumped  out  of  bed  like  a  man  who  has  dreamed  that 
he  is  paralysed,  and  on  awakening  flings  away  the  crutches 
with  which  he  had  walked  in  his  dream.  I  dressed  quickly 
and  ran  down-stairs  to  confront  my  wife. 

Through  the  half-open  door  my  enraptured  gaze  met 
a  charming  spectacle. 

She  lay,  stretched  out  at  full  length,  on  her  tumbled 
bed,  her  lovely  little  head  buried  in  the  pillow  over  which 


814  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

the  flood  of  her  golden  hair  waved  and  curled;  her  trans- 
parent nightgown  had  slipped  off  her  shoulders,  and  her 
virginal  bosom  gleamed  white  under  the  lace  insertion; 
the  soft,  red-and-white  striped  coverlet  betrayed  the 
swelling  curves  of  her  graceful,  fragile  body,  leaving  her 
bare  feet  uncovered — tiny  arched  feet  with  rosy  toes  and 
transparent  flawless  nails — a  genuine  work  of  art,  j>erfect, 
fashioned  in  flesh  after  the  model  of  an  antique  marble 
statue:  and  this  was  my  wife. 

Light-hearted  and  smiling,  with  an  expression  of  chaste 
motherliness,  she  watched  her  three  little  ones  as  they 
were  climbing  and  tumbling  about  among  the  flowered 
down  pillows,  as  if  on  a  heap  of  newly  mown  flowers. 

The  delightful  spectacle  softened  me.  But  a  whisper- 
ing doubt  in  my  heart  warned  me:  "Beware  of  the 
she-panther  playing  with  her  cubs !  " 

Disarmed  by  the  majesty  of  motherhood,  I  entered  her 
room  with  uncertain  steps,  timid  as  a  schoolboy. 

"  Ah !  You  are  up  already,  my  dear,"  she  greeted  me, 
surprised,  but  not  as  pleased  as  one  might  have  expected. 

I  stammered  a  confused  reply,  smothered  by  the  chil- 
dren, who  had  climbed  on  my  back  when  I  stooped  to 
kiss  their  mother. 

Was  it  possible.^  Could  she  really  be  a  criminal.''  I 
pondered  the  question  as  I  went  away,  subdued  by  her 
chaste  beauty,  the  candid  smile  of  those  lips  which  could 
surely  never  have  been  tainted  by  a  lie.  No,  a  thousand 
times  no!     .     .     . 

I  stole  away,  convinced  of  the  contrary. 

And  yet  doubt  remained,  doubt  of  everything:  of  my 
wife's  constancy,  my  children's  legitimate  birth,  my 
sanity;  doubt  which  persecuted  me,  relentlessly  and 
unremittingly. 

It  was  time  to  make  an  end,  to  arrest  the  flood  of  sterile 
thoughts.     If  only   I   could   have  absolute   certainty !     A 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  315 

crime  had  been  committed  in  secret,  or  else  I  was  mad! 
I  must  know  the  truth ! 

To  be  a  deceived  husband!  What  did  I  care,  as  long 
as  I  knew  it!  I  should  be  the  first  to  laugh  at  it.  Was 
there  a  single  man  in  the  world  who  could  be  absolutely 
certain  that  he  was  his  wife's  only  lover?     .     .    . 

When  I  thought  of  the  friends  of  my  youth,  now 
married,  I  could  not  pick  out  one  who  was  not,  to  some 
extent,  hoodwinked.  Lucky  men  whom  no  doubts 
tortured !  It  was  silly  to  be  small-minded.  Whether  one 
is  the  only  one,  or  whether  one  has  a  rival,  what  does  it 
matter?  The  ridicule  lies  in  the  fact  of  not  knowing  it; 
the  main  thing  is  to  know  all  about  it. 

Yet  if  a  man  were  married  for  a  hundred  years  he  would 
still  know  nothing  of  the  true  nature  of  his  wife.  How- 
ever deep  his  knowledge  of  humanity,  of  the  whole 
cosmos,  he  would  never  fathom  the  woman  whose  life  is 
bound  up  with  his  own  life.  For  this  reason  the  story 
of  poor  Monsieur  Bovary  is  such  pleasant  reading  for  all 
happy  husbands.    .    .    . 

But  as  far  as  I  was  concerned  I  wanted  the  truth.  I 
must  have  it.  For  the  sake  of  revenge?  What  folly! 
Revenge  on  whom?  On  my  favoured  rivals?  They  did 
but  make  use  of  their  prerogative  as  males !  On  my 
wife?  Did  I  not  say  one  ought  not  to  be  small-minded? 
And  to  hurt  the  mother  of  my  darlings?  How  could  I 
do  it? 

But  I  wanted  to  know;  I  wanted  to  know  everything. 
I  determined  to  examine  my  life,  carefully,  tactfully, 
scientifically;  to  make  use  of  all  the  resources  of 
psychology:  suggestion,  thought-reading,  mental  torture 
— none  should  be  neglected;  I  determined  to  probe  the 
deepest  depths,  not  even  despising  the  well-worn,  old- 
fashioned  means  of  burglary,  theft,  interception  of  letters, 
forged  signatures.     .     .     . 


816  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

I  determined  to  make  the  most  searching  investigations 
.  .  .  Was  that  monomania,  the  paroxysm  of  rage  of  a 
lunatic?     It  is  not  for  me  to  say. 

I  appeal  to  the  reader  for  a  verdict  after  a  careful  study 
of  my  confession.  Perhaps  he  will  find  in  it  elements  of 
the  physiology  of  love,  some  light  on  the  pathology  of 
the  soul,  or  even  a  strange  fragment  of  the  philosophy  of 
crime. 

September  1887 — March  1888. 


Concluding  Remarks  of  the  Author 

This  is  a  terrible  book,  I  fully  admit  it,  and  I  regret 
that  I  ever  wrote  it. 

How  did  I  come  to  write  it? 

I  had  to  wash  my  corpse  before  it  was  laid  in  its  coffin. 

Four  years  ago,  if  I  remember  rightly,  a  friend  of 
mine,  a  writer,  a  declared  enemy  of  the  indiscretions — 
of  others — said  to  me  one  day  when  talking  about  my 
first  marriage — 

"  Do  you  know,  it  would  make  excellent  copy  for  the 
sort  of  novel  which  I  should  like  to  write." 

Certain  of  my  friend's  applause,  I  decided  there  and 
then  to  write  it  myself. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  dear  old  fellow,  that  I,  as 
the  original  owner,  make  use  of  my  property." 

I  also  remember,  it  is  twelve  years  ago  now,  a  remark 
my  future  mother-in-law  made  to  me  one  evening  when  I 
was  watching  her  daughter  carrying  on  a  flirtation  with 
a  group  of  young  men — 

"Wouldn't  she  make  a  splendid  heroine  for  a  novel  .^  " 

"With  what  title?" 

"  A  passionate  woman !  " 

Happy  mother,  who  died  in  the  nick  of  time,  I  have 
carried  out  your  suggestion.  The  novel  has  been  written. 
I  can  die  in  peace. 

MS.  1888. 

The  other  day  I  met  again  the  hero  of  this  novel.  I 
upbraided  him  for  liaving  induced  me  to  publish  the  story 

817 


818  THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL 

of  his  first  marriage.  He  is  married  again,  father  of  a 
sweet  little  girl,  and  looks  ten  years  younger. 

"  Dear  old  boy, "  he  said  in  reply  to  my  reproaches, 
"  the  sympathy  which  everybody  felt  for  the  heroine  of 
the  novel,  when  it  was  first  published,  absolves  me.  You? 
may  gauge  from  this  fact  the  great  depth  of  the  love  I 
bore  her,  for  not  only  did  it  survive  so  much  brutalitj'', 
but  it  communicated  itself  even  to  the  reader.  This, 
however,  has  not  prevented  a  French  academician  from 
denouncing  my  constancy  as  weakness,  my  steadfast 
loyalty  to  my  family,  including  my  children,  baseness,  in 
view  of  my  wife's  brutality,  inconstancy  and  dishonesty.  I 
wonder  whether  this  man  would  consider  an  insignificant 
Caserio  superior  to  an  eminent  Carnot,  simply  because  the 
former  stabbed  the  latter? 

"  Moreover,  this  book,  which  you  had  wanted  to  write 
yourself,  is  only  the  woof  of  a  fabric  the  richness  of 
which  is  known  only  to  those  of  my  countrymen  who  have 
followed  my  literary  career  as  it  unfolded  itself  side  by 
side  with  the  sorrows  of  my  heart,  without  suffering  to 
be  influenced.  I  could  have  left  the  battlefield.  I 
remained  steadfastly  at  my  post.  I  fought  against  the 
enemy  at  home,  day  and  night.     Was  this  not  courage? 

"  The  '  poor,  defenceless  woman '  was  backed  by  the 
four  Scandinavian  kingdoms,  where  she  counted  nothing 
but  allies  in  her  war  against  a  man  who  was  sick,  solitary, 
poor,  and  threatened  with  confinement  in  a  lunatic  asylum 
because  his  intellect  rebelled  against  the  deification  of 
woman,  this  penultimate  superstition  of  the  free-thinkers. 

"  The  dear  souls  who  conceal  their  revengeful  thoughts 
under  the  term  *  divine  justice '  have  condemned  my 
'  Confession  '  in  the  name  of  their  Nemesis  divina,  bring- 
ing spurious  evidence  for  their  assertion  that  I  had 
deceived  the  husband  of  Marie's  first  marriage.  Let 
them  read  the  scene  where  the  Baron  throws  his  wife  into 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  A  FOOL  319 

my  arms,  when  I  stood  before  him  with  clean  hands  and 
confessed  to  him  my  guiltless  love  for  the  wife  he 
neglected.  Let  them  remember  the  important  fact  that 
I  took  upon  my  yoimg  shoulders  the  whole  burden  of  our 
fault,  to  save  his  position  in  the  army  and  the  future  of 
his  little  girl.  Let  them  then  say  whether  it  is  just  to 
punish  an  act  of  self-sacrifice  by  an  act  of  brutal  revenge. 

"  One  must  be  young  and  foolish  to  act  as  I  have  acted, 
I  admit  that.  But  it  will  not  happen  again — never 
again.  .  .  .  But  .  .  .  enough  of  it!  And  then 
.     .     .     no     .     .     .     good-bye ! " 

He  walked  away  quickly,  leaving  me  under  the  spell 
of  his  perfect  honesty. 

I  never  again  regretted  having  published  the  story  of 
this  idealist,  who  has  now  disappeared  from  literature  and 
the  world.  But  I  abandoned  my  former  intention  to  write 
"  The  Confession  of  a  Foolish  Woman,"  because,  after 
all,  it  goes  too  much  against  common-sense  to  allow  a 
criminal  to  give  evidence  against  her  victim. 

French  Original  Edition,  1894. 

It  was  the  outspoken  account  of  his  first  marriage, 
written  in  self-defence  and  as  a  last  testament,  for  he 
intended  to  take  his  life  as  soon  as  the  book  was  finished. 
For  five  years  the  sealed  manuscript,  which  was  not  meant 
for  publication,  was  in  the  safe  keeping  of  a  relative. 
Only  in  the  spring  of  1893,  under  the  pressure  of  circum- 
stances and  after  public  opinion  and  the  press  had 
attacked  him  in  the  most  unjust  manner,  did  he  sell  the 
book  to  a  publisher. 

"  Separated,"  1902. 

THE    END 


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